ifp-NRLF 


LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Deceived  JAN  1895       .',/«*._.'. 

^Accessions  M).^T^^.        class  No. 


if 


<( 


PEOPLE  I  HAVE  MET 


SHORT     SKETCHES     OF     MANY 
PROMINENT    PERSONS. 

BI 

MARY    WATSON. 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


He  that  writes, 

Or  makes  a  feast,  more  certainly  invites 
His  judges,  than  his  friends;  there's  not  a  guest 
But  will  find  something  wanting  or  ill-drest. 


SAN    FRANCISCO,    1890. 


SAN   FRANCISCO: 

Francis,  Valentine  &  Co.,  Printers,  517  Clay 
189C. 


TO 


MR.    GEORGE    HEAZELTON, 


THE    ACCOMPLISHED    EDITOR 


"  EVENING  POST,"  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO. 


PREFACE. 


It  has  been  my  good  fortune  or  my  fate,  to  travel — not 
like  the  majority  of  tourists  without  rest — but  with  occa- 
sional quiet  hours  "at  home ' c^o£  $ite  enjoyment  of  the 
pleasant  thoughts  and  sentiments  awakened  by  contact 
with  the  many  cultured  and  famous  people  it  has  been  my 
destiny  to  meet. 

There  is  always  a  charm  in  little  home  sketches  of  those 
whose  writings  have  pleased  or  instructed  us — like,  when 
after  the  glamor  of  stage  effect,  we  are  favored,  as  it  were, 
with  glimpses  behind  the  scenes. 

The  pleasing  incidents  and  anecdotes  portraying  the 
inner  life,  thoughts  and  acts  of  those  we  love,  admire  or 
venerate,  have  for  us  not  only  a  tender  interest,  but  often 
serve  as  a  key  to  unlock  for  us  those  palaces  of  enchant- 
ment where  poets  and  authors  have  delighted  to  dwell. 

Some  of  the  following   sketches  have  from  time  to  time 


4  PREFACE. 

appeared  in  news  and  literary  journals  of  the  day,  while 
others  are  here  published  for  the  first  time. 

I  hope  that  my  personal,  and  in  some  cases  intimate 
acquaintance  with  those  of  whom  I  have  written,  has 
enabled  me  to  give  an  added  and  peculiar  interest  to  each 

individual  delineation. 

THE    AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


MRS.  WATSON'S  PICTURE,  8 

Miss  M.  E.  BRADDON,  -     9 

JOHN  G.  SAXE,  16 

STEPHEN  MASSETT  (picture),  -       21 

MADAME  GEORGE  SAND  26 

J.  Ross  BROWNE       -  -       33 

PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY   -  36 

ROSA   BONHEUR,  (picture),  -                                    41 

OSCAR  WILDE    -  48 

MRS.  HUMPHREY  MOORE  -                                                53 

KISG  LEOPOLD  (picture),  61 

LADY  DUFFUS  HARDY  67 

M.  LOZE  (picture),  -  73 

MRS.  TINSDALE  76 

ANTHONY  TROLLOPE  (picture)  -  83 


MRS.    MARY    WATSON. 

(Journalist  and  Correspondent. 


5I7BRSITY 


MISS  M.  E.  BRADDON. 


IN  all  ages  the  writers  who  have  become  most  popular 
have  been  those  who  held  up  to  the  world  the  mirror 
of  national  character,  and  to  day,  when  novel-reading  has 
its  most  devoted  vot  tries,  why  should  nob  the  novelist's  art 
be  the  means  of  instilling  into  the  minds  of  readers  the  good 
and  evil  of  a  people  as  of  a  nation  1  Certainly  no  writer  of 
to-day  can  boast  of  a  more  characteristic  fame  than  Miss 
M.  E.  Braddon.  Look  at  her  earlier  works,  and  then  note 
how  gradually  the  same  power  is  used,  but  refined  and  toned 
down  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  this  more  exacting  age  of 
novel-readers.  From  "  Aurora  Floyd  "  to  the  later  works, 
the  same  subtle  genius,  but  how  differently  used — one,  the 
writing  of  a  most  powerful  imagination,  rough  in  places, 
yet  true  to  national  character;  the  other  totally  different, 
yet  with  the  same  force  and  peculiar  interest  that  drew  the 
attention  of  readers  years  ago.  Who  has  not  read  at  least 
one  novel  of  Miss  Braddon'?  The  most  famous  being  "  Au- 
rora Floyd,"  "  Henry  Dunbar,"  "  Lady  Audley's  Secret," 
"Dead  Men's  Shoes,"  "Joshua  Haggard's  Daughter,' 
"  Publicans  and  Sinners,"  "  Weavers  and  Weft,"  and  "  The 
Trail  of  the  Serpent,"  the  latter  named  being  the  most  pow- 
erfully written  of  them  all,  and  oue  of  her  very  first  produc- 
2 


IO  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

tions.  The  first  two  have  been  dramatized,  and,  as  is  well 
known,  were  wonderfully  successful.  But  next  to  the  charm 
of  reading  Miss  Braddon's  books  is  to  discuss  them  with  her; 
a  happy  opportunity  which  was  given  me  during  one  of  my 
visits  to  England. 

Miss  Brad  don  is  the  daughter  of  a  surgeon,  E.  A.  Brad- 
don,  now  deceased,  and  the  wife  of  Mr.  John  Maxwell, 
publisher  of  the  popular  English  magazine  Belgravia. 

One  day  in  June,  with  the  sun  streaming  down  and  dis- 
persing the  thick  fog  which  seems  to  hang  around  London 
like  a  dismal  shroud,  I  crossed  the  Victoria  bridge  and  took 
the  train  for  Richmond,  a  ride  of  about  half  an  hour  through 
a  lovely  country,  passing  gentlemen's  villas  and  beautifully 
laid-out  grounds,  which  line  almost  the  whole  road  on  either 
side.  On  alighting  from  the  train  at  the  station,  I  was  met 
by  a  charming  gentleman,  who  proved  to  be  young  Mr.  Max- 
well. He  asked  me  which  I  preferred,  walking  along  the 
lawn  to  the  house  or  by  going  through  an  allie  of  trees 
with  the  carriage?  "  Walking?'1  said  I.  "  Yes;  this  is 
Litchfield  house,"  he  replied,  pointing  directly  ahead  at  an 
nclosure  about  fifty  yards  from  the  station.  "  Then  let  us 
walk,  by  all  means,"  I  said,  and  we  proceeded  along  the 
most  beautiful  liwn,  close  shaven,  as  all  English  lawns  are. 
Shrubs  and  rare  old  trees,  ornamental  vases,  and  here  and 
there  parterre  upon  parterre  of  the  most  brilliant-hued 
flowers  ni3t  my  gaze.  The  various  shades  of  green  under 
the  wide-spreading  oaks,  as  the  sun  shone  through  the  leaves, 
was  a  sight  which  would  arrest  the  attention  of  anyone. 
When  about  half  way  along  the  path  I  noticed  coming  to- 
ward us  a  tall,  portly  man,  the  true  type  of  an  English 


MISS    M.    E.    BRADDON.  I  I 

gentleman.  He  came  up  to  us,  and  my  companion  intro- 
duced me,  saying:  "  This  is  my  father,  Mr.  Maxwell."  I 
shall  not  try  to  describe  him,  except  as  a  hearty,  whole- 
souled  gentleman,  who  welcomed  me  with  both  hands,  im- 
parting a  feeling  of  pleasure  which  far  exceeded  the  mere 
polite  welcome  generally  extended  to  strangers.  The  differ- 
ent aspects  of  the  place  were  pointed  out  to  me  as  he  offered 
his  arm  and  lei  me  to  the  house,  and  a  more  beautiful  place 
it  has  rarely  been  my  pleasure  to  see. 

Litchfield  house  is  a  mansion  of  the  Elizabethan  style, 
modernized — roses  climbing  on  the  walls,  over  the  verandas, 
along  the  sides  of  the  windows,  and  in  fact,  wherever  there 
is  room  for  a  rose  to  bloom.  No  words  can  describe  the 
gay  appearance  the  roses  give  to  the  gray  house  and  old, 
spacious  windows.  All  looked  so  bright,  so  cheerful  and  in- 
viting, that,  with  the  courtesy  which  Mr.  Maxwell  had  wel- 
comed me,  I  felt  in  the  best  of  humors.  But  what  can  I 
say  in  praise  of  the  very  warm  manner  I  was  received  by 
the  great  authoress  herself]  I  lost  sight  of  all  her  fame  at 
the  very  womanly  and  unaffected  manner  of  my  reception. 
Standing  in  or  rather  leaning  against  the  door  was  Miss 
Braddon,  a  tall  lady,  somewhat  thin,  attired  in  a  rich  black 
silk  dress,  with  white  lace  around  her  throat.  A  coquettish 
Dolly  Varden  cap  completed  her  toilet.  What  an  expressive 
face  is  hers  !  Gray  eyes,  sparkling  with  fun,  bright  and  well 
opened.  I  am  sure  nothing  escapes  her  gaze.  But  the 
charm  of  her  whole  being  is  the  thorough,  home-like  cor- 
diality and  unafFectedness  of  the  woman.  I  was  asked  into 
the  house,  escorted  to  her  own  apartment,  and  with  her  own 
hands  assisted  in  divesting  myself  of  my  outer  garments. 


12  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

Her  kindness  of  manner  so  attracted  me  that  any  trepida- 
tion which  I  might  have  felt  in  the  presence  of  so  famous  a 
personage  vanished.  I  suppose  the  very  unfamiliarity  of 
hearing  her  addressed  as  Mrs.  Maxwell  made  me  forget  to 
whom  I  was  indebted  for  so  much  hospitality. 

After  many  questions  about  California,  I  said  to  her  : 
"  Mrs.  Maxwell,  I  know  you  so  well  through  your  books, 
will  you  not  allow  me  to  call  you  by  the  name  I  am  most 
familiar  with — Miss  Braddon  1 "  "Certainly,"  said  she. 
"  I  frequently  have  callers  on  business  who  never  think  of 
addressing  me  by  any  other  then  the  one  you  prefer;  so  you 
see  it  will  not  sound  at  all  strange  to  me."  We  then  went 
together  to  the  drawing-room,  where  we  were  met  by  several 
other  guests  who  had  arrived  in  the  meantime.  The  drawing- 
room  is  on  the  east  side  of  the  house,  and  contains  three 
large  windows — one  opening  on  the  lawn,  another  on  the 
walk  which  approaches  the  front  of  the  house  on  the  east 
side  of  the  room,  and  a  bay  window,  forming  an  alcove 
almost  the  whole  length  of  the  room,  overlooking  the  mag- 
nificent grounds  laid  out  in  terraces  and  belonging  to  the 
famous  Star  and  Garter  Inn.  The  ceiling  is  frescoed  in  the 
modern  Italian  style,  and  the  oak  carvings  of  the  wall,  win- 
dows and  mantel-pieces  are  very  old  and  very  rare.  The 
walls  are  literally  covered  with  paintings  in  both  oil  and 
water  colors,  most  of  them  genre  subjects,  which  Miss  Brad- 
don assured  me  were  her  peculiar  fancy.  Some  of  the  fur. 
niture  is  old  and  quaintly  carved,  and  some  rich  and  of  most 
modern  design.  As  in  all  English  households,  there  was  a 
cheerful  blaze  in  the  fire-place,  although  the  sun  shone  warm 
and  pleasantly  outside. 


MISS    M.    E.    BRADDON.  13 

The  sons  and  daughters  all  looked  toward  the  authoress 
as  the  great  home  attraction  for  the  family.  Soon  after  my 
entrance  into  the  drawing-room,  luncheon  was  announced. 
Mr.  Maxwell  offered  me  his  arm,  and  consequently  at  table 
I  was  placed  at  his  right.  The  table  looked  tempting  enough 
to  brighten  the  veriest  non-content.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Max- 
well have  several  children;  the  youngest,  when  T  paid  my 
first  well-remembered  visit,  which  was  a  little  over  ten  years 
ago,  was  a  boy,  about  four  years  old.  All  took  their  places 
at  the  board.  The  conversation  was  chatty  and  lively,  and 
the  talk  was  on  ordinary  subjects.  Among  the  topics  of 
course  California  was  mentioned.  Miss  Braddon  expressed 
herself  favorably  regarding  our  Golden  State,  as  she  termed 
it,  and  said  if  it  were  possible,  how  much  she  would  like  to 
visit  California  as  well  as  other  parts  of  the  United  States. 
She  was  attracted  the  moot,  however,  to  the  Yosemite.  She 
assured  me  that  she  had  at  one  time  been  more  deeply  inter- 
ested in  California,  as  she  had  intended  to  write  a  novel  in 
which  some  scenes  of  California  life  were  to  have  been  laid. 

In  my  honor,  a  bottle  of  sparkling  Moselle  was  opened, 
remarkable  for  its  age,  having  been  in  the  cellar  for  twenty 
years.  We  drank  to  the  good  health  of  our  host  and  hostess. 
Miss  Braddon  thanked  me  and  responded  by  wishing  all 
success  to  California  and  Californians.  We  discussed  our 
mutual  friends,  and  then  the  ladies,  at  a  sign  from  the  hostess, 
left  the  gentlemen  to  their  after-dinner  cigars,  while  we  re- 
paired to  the  drawing-room. 

A  little  later  we  saw  the  gentlemen  strolling  out  over  the 
lawn,  and  the  hostess,  looking  out,  said  :  "  Just  look  at  those 
foolish  men  shivering  and  shaking  with  the  cold,  and  trying 


14  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

to  make  themselves  think  they  are  having  such  a  nice  time." 
Miss  Braddon's  works  were  not  once  alluded  to  by  herself. 
If  any  questions  were  asked  regarding  her  writings,  she  an- 
swered in  a  plain,  straightforward  manner.  I  said,  "  Miss 
Braddon,  will  you  allow  me  to  ask  you  about  your  books  ? " 
"  Why,  certainly,"  said  she,  "if  that  will  interest  you." 
Then  I  asked  her  what  part  of  the  day  most  of  her  literary 
work  was  done  1  "  At  any  time,"  she  answered,  "  but  I 
find  my  brain  clearer  in  the  early  morning.  I  rise  at  seven 
o'clock,  walk  in  the  grounds  for  half  an  hour,  then  write  for 
an  hour;  by  that  time  I  generally  feel  ready  for  a  good, 
hearty  breakfast.  During  the  day  if  an  opportunity  occurs 
or  if  I  feel  in  the  humor,  I  write,  never  longer  then  an  hour, 
or  two  at  the  very  most.  I  am  like  a  good  many  people,  and 
do  not  like  to  commence,  although  I  have  thought  out  my 
work  beforehand.  However,  I  find,  when  I  set  myself  down 
to  real  work,  that  my  thoughts  find  vent  and  my  pen  will 
not  write  fast  enough."  "  Does  it  not  tire  you  1 "  "  No,  I 
never  tire  of  writing.  At  one  time  when  I  first  began,  I 
did  not  know  what  I  was  going  to  say,  but  now  I  learn  that, 
like  everything  else,  thoughts  will  be  more  completely  ex- 
pressed by  having  one's  plan  perfected  beforehand."  "  Can 
you  foresee  your  strongest  characters  ? "  "  I  seem  to  know 
which  they  will  be,  and  find  when  I  get  into  the  story  deeper 
that  I  am  more  interested  in  my  characters  then  any  of  my 
readers  can  ever  be.  For  the  time  being  I  see  them,  hear 
them  speak,  and  note  the  manner  in  which  they  express 
themselves.  In  fact,  to  me  they  are  living,  breathing  per- 
sonages, my  familiar  spirits."  Again  I  pursued  my  questions 
by,  u  How  do  you  plan  the  end  ?  This  always  seems  to  me, 


MISS    M.    E.    BRADDON.  15 

the  most  difficult  part  of  them."  "  I  do  not  plan  them;  I 
follow  up  my  story  as  if  I  were  reading  some  one's  writings. 
The  characters  and  the  manner  in  which  they  have  figured 
lead  me  to  the  end;  and,  indeed,  I  feel  a  real  regret  at  being 
compelled  to  part  with  them."  "  What  a  pity  you  let  Cyn- 
thia die,"  I  said,  "she  was  a  character  I  admired  so  much." 
"  How  could  I  help  it  1  She  was  just  meant  for  that  ending. 
How  could  Joshua  Haggard  himself  have  been  brought  to 
confess  the  murder,  except  through  the  sorrow  of  losing 
her  1 "  "  You  never  write  stories  after  the  French  fashion  ]" 
"  No,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  ain  an  Englishwoman,  and  write 
about  women  whose  type  I  see  around  me  every  day."  One 
after  another  the  rest  of  her  books  were  discussed,  until  four 
o'clock  tea  was  announced.  Again  we  entered  the  dining- 
room,  and  I  felt  that  the  time  was  approaching  when  I  must 
say  adieu.  I  asked  Miss  Braddon  which  one  of  her  books 
she  considered  the  best,  and  was  answered:  "  My  earliest 
one,  '  The  Trail  of  the  Serpent,' "  which  at  that  time  had 
been  recently  revised. 

I  thanked  her  for  her  cordial  manner  and  the  patience  with 
which  she  had  answered  my  questions.  Young  Mr.  Max- 
well— a  gentleman  about  twenty-one  or  two — stood  hat  in 
hand  waiting  to  escort  me  to  the  train,  and  with  sincere  re- 
gret on  my  side,  we  parted  that  evening,  and  I  felt  that 
never  had  I  been  so  agreeably  entertained  as  on  that  first 
day  I  spent  with  Miss  Braddon. 


JOHN  G.  SAXE. 


MORE  than  twenty  years  have  passed  since  I  first  met 
the  subject  of  this  sketch,  who  was  one  of  the  most 
popular  and  fascinating  of  American  wits  and  poets.  He 
was  not  only  an  entertaining  writer,  but  a  charming 
companion.  Mr.  Saxe  was  at  the  very  height  of  his  fame 
that  summer  I  spsnt  with  him  in  Jackson,  Michigan.  I 
s\w  much  of  him,  for  we  were  both  visiting  at  the  home  of 
a  mutual  friend.  He  was  sought  after  and  lionized  wher- 
ever he  went,  and  ho  was  the  very  life  of  whatever  circle 
he  was  in.  How  well  I  remember  his  gallantry,  his  grace- 
ful, winning  way,  and  his  ready  and  well-selected  poetical 
quotations.  His  stay  in  Jackson  was  spent  in  a  round  of 
gayeties,  made  up  of  all  sorts  of  out-door  sports.  One  day 
would  be  spent  in  rowing,  another  in  fishing  or  frog- 
catching;  while  driving,  riding  and  picnics  came  thick  and 
fast.  But  there  was  one  sport  which  he  enjoyed  a^ove  all 
others,  and  that  was  frog-spearing  at  night,  by  the  aid  of 
candles  and  bits  of  red  flannel.  As  I  think  of  him  one  of 
his  verses  comes  to  me  : 

"Ah!  well  I  remember  the  halcyon  years, 
Too  earnest  for  laughter,  too  pleasant  for  tears; 
When  life  was  a  boon  in  classical  court, 
Though  lessons  were  long,  and  though  commons  were  short. " 


JOHN    G.    SAXE.  17 

Alas!  what  a  change  came  to  him  in  a  few  years  after — 
shadows  followed  the  sunshine  of  his  life,  and  the  bright, 
joyous  laugh  was  seldom  heard,  and  soon  it  vanished 
altogether.  His  wife  and  three  daughters  were  laid  away 
to  sleep  in  Greenwood  Cemetery,  while  a  son  was  buried 
in  Albany,  N.  Y.  And  the  much-loved  poet  ended  his 
sorrows  and  suffering  apart  from  the  world,  a  broken- 
hearted man. 

Mr.  Saxe  was  a  native  of  Franklin  county,  Vermont. 
He  received  a  fine  college  education,  and  graduated  bachelor 
of  arts  from  Middlebury  College.  He  then  read  law  at 
Lockport,  N.  Y.,  and  at  St.  Albans,  Vt.,  where  he  was 
admitted  to  the  bar.  As  a  lawyer  he  met  with  more  than 
average  success.  His  fondness  for  literature  and  love  for 
writing  led  him  into  the  field  of  journalism,  and  he  became 
editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Vermont  Sentinel.  Although 
a  graduate  of  Middlebury,  Saxe  was  initiated  into  the 
Psi  Upsilon  fraternity,  at  Harvard.  He  lived  at  one  time 
in  Brooklyn,  but  later  went  to  Albany,  where  he  ended 
his  days. 

One  of  his  earliest  productions  was  "  Progress,  a  Satire." 
After  this  he  wrote  "  A  New  Rape  of  the  Lock,  "  The 
Proud  Miss  MacBride,"  "  Humorous  and  Satirical  Poems," 
(in  book  form)  "  The  Money  King,"  "  The  Flying  Dutch- 
man," "  The  Masquerade,"  and  very  many  others.  Of  his 
ballads  the  best  remembered  are,  "The  Ghost  Player," 
"The  Briefless  Barrister,"  "How  Cyrus  Laid  the  Cable," 
and  "  The  Cold  Water  Man." 

His  writings  were  not  all  of  the  humorous  character, 
however;  he  wrote  many  poems  showing  pathos  and  deeper 


1 8  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

thought*  His  "  Bereavement "  is  considered  a  companion 
piece  to  Longfellow's  "Resignation."  And  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  all,  to  my  mind,  at  least,  is  his  "  Miserere  Donrine." 
But  his  pen  has  now  been  laid  aside,  and  the  world  will 
read  nothing  new  from  my  much-admired  and  lamented 
acquaintance,  John  G.  Saxe. 


STEPHEN    MASSETT. 


TJ5IV3          T 


STEPHEN  MASSETT. 


.  STEPHEN  MASSETT,  or  "Colonel  Jeemes  Pipes 
of  Pipesville,"  once  of  San  Francisco,  has  had  a 
very  extraordinary  and  eventful  career,  and,  in  his  way, 
is  a  genius,  if  one  ever  was  created;  and  I  have  the 
greatest  pleasure  in  not  only  giving  him  a  place  in 
these  memories,  but  also  of  presenting  my  readers  and 
his  California  friends  and  a  Imirers  with  his  handsome 
portrait  and  with  one  of  his  most  dramatic  poems.  Mr. 
Masse tt  has  given,  single-handed,  the  most  varied  enter- 
tainment, in  the  shape  of  a  "  monologue,"  I  have  ever  listened 
to,  and  in  almost  every  portion  of  the  habitable  globe.  He 
gave  the  very  first  entertainment  in  the  Alcalde  Building, 
Portsmouth  Square,  in  June,  1849,  when  quite  a  youngster, 
and  at  the  time  was  a  clerk  in  Colonel  Jonathan  D. 
Stevenson's  office;  he  then  turned  auctioneer,  and,  in  1851, 
the  firm  of  Massett  &  Brewster,  in  Sacramento  city,  did  a 
roaring  business.  Then  he,  with  Judge  K.  II.  Taylor, 
edited  the  Marysville  Herald,  and  made  money  out  of  it. 
But  our  restless  hero  longed  again  for  the  glitter  of  the 
footlights  and  for  European  travel,  and  went  to  the 
antipodes,  giving  his  "  Ballad  Concerts  and  Readings  "  in 
Sydney,  Melbourne,  South  Australia,  Sandwich  Islands, 


22  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

Bombay,  Calcutta,  Madras,  Singapore,  through  British 
India,  China,  Japan  and  England,  and  I  believe  his  latest 
tour  has  been  through  South  Africa,  where,  from  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope  to  the  Diamond  Fields,  he  has  been  received 
most  cordially.  The  press  always  speak  of  his  wonderful 
talents  and  versatile  impersonations.  I  understand  he  is 
making  his  arrangements  to  take  another  trip  around  the 
world.  One  of  the  most  critical  of  New  York  editors  speaks 
in  the  following  eulogistic  manner  of  his  latest  poem,  "  The 
Lost  Ship  "  (in  which  I  agree  with  him  entirely),  as  a  really 
wonderful  dramatic  sketch: 

"I  wonder  whether  anybody  who  knows  him  ever  gives 
Stephen  Massett  credit  for  being  anything  but  a  brilliant 
butterfly  of  the  drawing-room  or  a  merry  humming-bird 
that  wings  its  willful  way  around  the  world  whenever  it 
fe3ls  like  changing  its  location.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have 
met  '  James  Pipes  of  Pipesville '  about  everywhere  on  the 
surface  of  the  globe,  except  at  the  north  and  south  poles. 
Possibly,  if  I  had  visited  those  boreal  regions,  which  having 
a  fancy  for  comfort  I  have  not,  I  might  have  found  him 
entertaining  walruses  and  polar  bears  with  the  same  effect 
that  he  has  entertained  me  and  many  men  like  me,  not  to 
mention  any  number  of  charming  women,  in  more  civilized 
regions.  Perhaps  I  have  done  Mr.  Massett  an  involuntary 
injustice  by  always  regarding  him  as  a  man  after  my  own 
light  heart;  but  I  find  in  Harper's  Weekly,  over  his  signa- 
ture, a  bit  of  epic  verse  that  gives  a  new  complexion  to  uiy 
estimation  of  him,  and  that  transforms,  in  my  estimation, 
this  amiable  and  facile  rhymer  into  a  true  poet.  It  is 
called  '  The  Lost  Ship/  and  reads: 


STEPHEN    MASSETT.  23 

"  The  great  ship  flew 

With  its  living  freight, 
Right  in  the  trough  of  the  sea! 
The  dense  fog  came  like  a  pall  so  thick — 
Oh,  where  can  the  helmsman  be  ? 

For  if  at  his  post, 
With  his  hands  on  the  wheel, 
He  can  neither  hear  nor  see. 

The  blinding  rain 
Comes  hissing  down, 
And  the  winds  howl  so  that  he 

Is  deaf  to  all; 
For  the  captain's  call 
And  the  passengers'  shrieks 
Are  all  lost  on  him; 
For  the  icicles  dim 
His  sleepless  eyes,  and  paralyze 

Both  hand  and  limb; 

So  he  stands  there,  stiff  and  cold  and  still, 
Dead!  at! the  Master's  will. 


"  Ah!  what  avail  are  the  cries  and  prayers 
Of  the  voices  of  those  doomed  ones  there, 
With  their  maniac  shoutings  filling  the  air  ? 
No  eye  can  see — none  ever  know 
The  agony  of  those  hemmed  in, 
With  hatches  battened  down  below; 
Covered  with  fog  and  sleet  and  snow, 
And  blinding  hailstones  rattling  so, 
As  if  laughing  at  their  woe. 
Still,  still  the  doomed  ship  staggers  on, 
Right  through  the  hissing  waves  alone. 
No  human  eye  will  ever  see 
One  of  that  great  ship's  company; 
For,  shrouded  in  her  storm-clad  pall, 
The  ship  went  down — went  down  with  all! 

"  This  is  fine  dramatic  poetry.      To  an   old   wanderer, 
cradled  by  the  billows  of  deep   seas  in  many  a  tempest,  it 


24  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

has  the  rhythmic  swing  of  the  sullen  surge  and  the  bitter 
bluster  of  the  bullying  wind  all  through  it.  '  .Teems  '  may 
tune  his  pipe  to  our  lightest  moods  after  this.  He  may 
babble  his  bon-mots,  and  chant  his  pretty  tuneful  madrigals 
amid  the  perfumes  of  the  gay  world  he  loves  as  the  young 
lark  loves  the  sun.  But  I  shall  always  hear,  behind  the 
lightest  jest  he  flings  out,  the  story  he  has  told  so  well  of 
the  lost  ship  in  mid-ocean,  and  have  ringing  in  my  ears  the 
infernal  symphony  of  night  and  storm  to  which  I  have 
listened  more  than  once  when  Death  and  I  might  have 
shaken  hands  without  my  stirring  from  my  post  upon  the 
groaning  deck." 

It  is  dramatic  enough  to  thrill  everyone,  and  it  will 
give  people  a  glimpse  of  the  side  of  a  popular  entertainer 
that  they  are  not  often  privileged  to  see. 

Stephen  Massett,  author,  composer,  lecturer,  singer  and 
reciter,  has  lately  composed  the  words  and  music  of  a  song 
that  will  make  him  famous.  It  is  called  "  My  Darling's 
Face,"  and  I  take  pleasure  in  quoting  it  here: 

MY  DARLING'S  FACE. 

I. 
When  day  is  done  and  night  comes  on, 

And  stars  shine  forth  on  land  and  sea; 
There  comes  an  hour — the  only  hour, 

More  than  all  others  dear  to  me; 

The  hour  I  wait  thy  coming,  love! 

For  then  my  darling's  face  I  see! 

II. 
When  night  is  o'er  and  the  bright  sun 

Sheds  its  soft  beams,  dear  one,  on  thee, 
If  by  its  light  it  leads  me,  love, 


STEPHEN    MASSETT.  25 

To  hear  thy  voice,  so  sweet  to  me, 
That  is  the  hour — the  only  hour, 
For  then  my  darling's  face  I  see! 

ill. 
No  other  face  in  all  the  world 

Can  with  this  lovely  one  compare; 
My  eyes  I  strain,  and  look  in  vain 

For  one  that  is  to  me  so  fair! 
I  see  it  now!  it  looks  at  me! — 

It  is  my  darling's  face  I  see! 

It  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  claim  Mr.  Massett  as  one 
of  my  acquaintances  for  many  years.  I  first  met  him  in 
Marysville,  where  the  ladies  were  fairly  raving  over  him, 
and  I  have  always  foun4  him  the  same  polished  gentleman, 
true  and  obliging  friend. 


GEORGE  SAND. 


IT  was  while  dining  at  the  famous  Cafe  Anglaise,  on 
the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  in  Paris,  that  I  became 
acquainted  with  George  Sand  (Madame  Ptidevant).  Sitting 
at  a  table  opposite  us  was  a  gay  party;  among  them  an 
elderly  lady,  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion,  and  with 
unusual  good  taste,  even  for  Paris.  She  seemed  to  be  the 
most  animated  of  the  party ;  in  person  rather  short  and 
stout,  with  small  hands  which  she  used  in  gesticulation 
very  gracefully  and  effectively.  Upon  being  informed  by  a 
gentleman  of  our  party  that  the  lady  was  Madame  Dude- 
vant,  a  bouquet  was  purchased  and  sent  to  her,  with 
compliments  from  her  American  admirers.  She  received 
the  bouquet  in  a  composed  manner,  and  without  the 
betrayal  of  a  particle  of  astonishment,  but  arose  and  fol- 
lowed the  bearer  of  the  nosegay  to  our  table,  and  thanked 
us  for  the  attention.  In  her  charming  manner  she 
complied  when  we  invited  her  to  take  a  glass  of  wine 
with  us ;  and,  after  a  short  conversation,  I  was  asked  to 
meet  her  at  the  opera  the  following  evening.  The  occasion 
was  the  initial  performance  of  Ambroise  Thomas's  "Hamlet," 
with  Nillsoii  and  Foure  in  the  principal  parts;  and,  the 
next  evening  I  found  myself  seated  next  to  ^the  great 


GEORGE    SAND.  2  7 

novelist.  It  is  here  that  all  the  famous  literati  of  Paris  meet. 
The  building  (Les  Italiens)  which  has  since  been  burned 
down,  stood  on  the  Rue  Marsellein.  It  was  in  one  of  the 
boxes,  amid  the  fashion  and  pomp  of  a  Parisian  audience, 
that  I  studied  the  character  of  the  woman.  But  we  were 
interrupted  frequently  by  the  many  friends  who  came  to 
see  her  between  the  acts  ;  for  in  the  opera-house  the  gentle- 
men enter  the  boxes  of  their  acquaintances,  the  same  as 
though  they  were  making  a  call  at  their  residences.  A  few 
sentences  are  exchanged,  and  one  caller  makes  way  for 
another. 

Amatine  Lucille  Aurore  Dupin,  born  in  Paris,  July, 
1801:,  was  the  daughter  of  Maurice  Dupin,  of  whom  very 
little  is  known.  He  died  when  his  daughter  was  but  four 
years  old,  leaving  her  in  the  care  of  her  grandmother,  the 
Countess  de  Horn,  the  illegitimate  daughter  of  the  Marshal 
Saxe,  who  was  the  illegitimate  son  of  Augustus  II.,  King 
of  Poland,  and  Aurore  de  Konigsmark.  The  child  lived  at 
first  with  the  Countess  de  Horn,  at  the  Chateau  of  Nahaut, 
near  La  Chatre ;  but  was  educated  in  Paris,  and  for  some 
time  was  an  inmate  of  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 
At  the  age  of  eighteen  she  married  Casimir  Dudevant,  and 
after  several  years  of  married  unhappiness,  they  entered 
into  a  contract;  he  allowing  her  1,500  francs  a  year,  and  to 
live  in  Paris  three  months  out  of  every  six.  This  is  a  bare 
outline  of  the  early  history  of  Mme.  Dudevant  before  she 
started  on  her  literary  career.  What  cause  she  had  to 
finally  separate  from  her  husband  no  one  ever  knew.  The 
reason  given  to  the  public  was  incompatibility  of  temper. 
I  ruminated  over  this  history  while  the  woman  was  at 


28  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

my  side,  applauding  with  all  her  heart  whenever  she  was 
touched  by  the  magnificent  acting  or  singing  of  the  artist 
before  us.  Mme.  Dudevant  was  the  mother  of  four  child- 
ren, and  had  the  sole  care  of  them  for  many  years.  She 
spoke  of  them  very  frequently,  and  certainly  was  a  most 
devoted  mother.  She  told  me  it  was  to  find  food  and 
shelter  for  her  little  ones  that  she  first  assumed  male  attire, 
in  order  to  visit  the  different  places  which  she  found 
occasion  to  write  about,  as  it  would  have  been  impossible 
to  giin  the  knowledge  she  desired  in  female  dress.  She 
looked  like  anything  but  a  woman  who  would  brave  the 
rough  company  she  was'compelled  to  meet.  Her  allowance 
of  1,500  francs  was  but  a  pittance,  and  she  was  obliged  to 
add  to  her  income  by  her  personal  efforts.  The  only  way 
open  to  her  was  through  the  medium  of  her  pen.  She  con- 
tributed to  the  daily  papers  for  some  time  before  the  publi- 
cation of  her  first  novel.  She  was  of  a  nervous,  emotional 
temperament.  Tears  were  in  her  eyes  frequently  during  the 
evening,  and  [  had  to  use  all  the  tact  which  I  was  mistress 
of  in  asking  questions  regarding  herself.  In  the  whole 
course  of  my  life  I  have  never  met  so  lovable  a  woman  as 
she.  From  what  [  hid  heard  and  read  of  her  life,  I  was  not 
prepared  to  be  so  agreeably  impressed,  or  to  find  her  so 
amiable  as  well  as  talented.  That  she  was  well  liked  by 
her  acquaintances  there  is  no  doubt.  The  box  was 
thronged  during  the  whole  evening  by  the  most  celebrated 
authors,  artists,  musicians,  act jr-s  and  journalists.  All 
seemed  to  be  on  the  most  cordial  terms  with  her,  and  she 
greeted  them  with  a  friendliness  that  was  perfectly  charm- 
ing, Of  course  the  conversation  with  her  friends  was  about 


GEORGE    SAND.  29 

their  mutual  acquaintances,  and   not  once  did  she  utter  an 
envious  or  ill-natured  remark. 

In  this  respect  George  Sand  differs  from  the  majority  of 
the  Parisian  women,  who  in  spite  of  the  tact,  wisdom  and 
good  taste  which  they  generally  display,  do  not  hesitate  to 
spread  scandal  whenever  it  is  of  the  choicest  kind;  and  the 
box  at  the  opera  is  the  hot-bed  where  all  the  little  t  dbits 
of  gossip  are  generated.  Ladies  here  and  gentlemen  there 
are  pointed  out,  viewed  through  the  lorgnette,  criticised; 
confidentially  the  lady  whispers  of  this  indiscretion  or  that 
escapade  into  her  friend's  ear,  and  soon  the  scandal  grows. 
Mme.  Dudevant  was  not  guilty  of  any  such  conduct.  She 
told  me  the  story  of  her  nom  de  plume.  Her  first  novel  was 
written  in  partnership  with  Jules  Sandeau,  and  was  pub- 
lished under  the  name  of  Jules  Sand.  One  day  her  child 
became  suddenly  ill.  At  that  time  being  entirely  unused  to 
the  care  of  children,  she  was  at  a  loss  how  to  administer  to 
the  little  sufferer's  wants.  The  faithful  attendant  whom 
she  had  hitherto  depended  upon  suddenly  left.  The  child 
would  have  died  in  convulsions  had  it  not  been  for  a 
humble  neighbor  who  applied  the  proper  remedies  and  the 
child  was  saved.  This  neighbor  became  the  intimate  friend 
of  the  household.  Soon  after  this  event,  the  furniture  of 
the  kind  neighbor  was  seized  for  debt  which  the  husband,  a 
drunken  good-for-nothing,  had  incurred.  Officers  were  re- 
moving the  goods,  when  the  woman  ran  into  Mme.  Dude- 
vant's,  crying:  "  Oh,,  madame,  save  them!  save  them!  They 
are  removing  everything  I  have  in  my  home."  Madame 
Dudevant  inquired  how  much  the  husband  owed.  "  Four 
hundred  francs,"  was  the  reply.  She  would  have  paid  the 


3O  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

sum  at  once,  but  alas!  she  had  not  the  money  and  did  not 
know  where  to  get  it.  She  had  no  valuables  to  offer  as 
s-curity.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  She  entreated  the  officers 
of  the  law  to  wait  until  the  next  day,  and  promised  that 
she  would  then  discharge  the  indebtedness,  offering  her  own 
furniture  as  security.  The  officers  consented,  but  how  was 
she  to  accomplish  what  she  had  pledged  herself  to  do  1  She 
had  nothing  but  an  incomplete  manuscript  of  a  novel,  which 
she  had  laid  aside  unfinished.  She  had  written  it  without 
the  aid  of  her  partner;  he  knew  nothing  about  it.  That 
night  Madam  Dudevant  completed  her  work,  and  with  some 
trepidation  signed  the  name  of  George  Sand,  not  desiring  to 
use  the  name  of  Jules  Sand,  that  being  the  firm's  nom  de 
plume.  The  next  day  she  sold  it  to  the  publishers  for  1,800 
francs,  and  from  this  amount  saved  the  poor  woman,  who 
had  once  befriended  her.  The  novel  appeared  two  months 
later  with  the  title  of  "  Indiana,  by  George  Sand."  Imme- 
diately it  created  a  furor,  and  from  that  time  forward  she  was 
known  by  that  name.  She  was  at  once  engaged  to  write 
the  novels  and  novelettes  for  the  Review  des  Deux  Mondes,  and 
from  that  dates  her  great  success.  She  has  written  numerous 
works,  and  they  all  show  a  profound  seeking  for  the  truth. 
They  may  be  divided  into  classes.  Her  earliest  novels  show 
the  school  of  the  Philosoplie,  which  she  learned  from.  Sandeau 
and  others;  the  later  ones  the  opposite  school  of  Desmoulins, 
as  is  shown  in  "  Consuelo,"  and  the  sequel,  the  "  Countess 
of  Rudolstadt."  The  works  for  the  stage  were  not  very 
successful  until  the  production  of  "  La  Marquis  de  Villemar," 
which  was  a  great  success.  A  great  theatrical  success,  the 
authorship  of  which  another  was  credited  with,  and  one  well 


GEORGE    SAND.  31 

known  by  Americans,  is  the  work  of  George  Sand — "  Fan- 
chon,"  which  is  an  adaptation  of  "  Le  Petit  Fadet."  It  was 
first  played  in  Germany  under  the  name  "  Die  Grille  "  (the 
Cricket)  and  adapted  by  Charlotte  Birch  Pfeifer.  It  was 
then  brought  out  in  its  present  form  for  the  American 
actress,  Maggie  Mitchell,  and  called  "  Fanchon,  the  Cricket." 
Many  of  George  Sand's  novels  show  a  knowledge  of  music, 
which  is  wonderful  in  one  who  never  studied  the  art;  but 
Madame  George  Sand  was  a  woman  who  gained  knowledge 
from  those  with  whom  she  came  in  contact,  and  Chopin, 
the  great  composer,  was  her  most  intimate  friend  at  one 
time. 

She  realized  immense  sums  of  money  from  the  proceeds 
of  her  works,  but  died  in  moderate  circumstances.  This  was 
mainly  due  to  her  very  charitable  disposition.  No  one  who 
was  worthy  and  in  want  ever  applied  to  her  without  receiv- 
ing material  assistance.  Much  of  George  Sand's  time  was 
spent  in  reading  manuscripts  of  young  authors  which  were 
sent  to  solicit  patronage.  She  conscientiously  delivered  her 
opinion.  Many  a  young  author  owes  his  success,  moderate 
though  it  was,  to  her  influence.  Nowhere,  or  to  no  one, 
was  there  so  much  friendship  given  as  to  George  Sand.  In 
Paris,  she  was  esteemed  and  loved  by  all  who  knew  her,  and 
in  her  own  family  she  was  held  in  the  tenderest  regard. 

To  strangers,  especially  to  Americans,  she  was  particularly 
polite,  as  was  evidenced  to  me  in  many  instances.  I  saw 
Madame  George  Sand  many  times  after  my  visit  to  her  in 
her  opera  box,  and  the  more  I  saw  of  her,  the  greater  be- 
came my  esteem  for  the  woman  who  was  looked  at  by  the 
world  of  church-goers  and  society  as  a  Bohemian,  who  was 


32  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

only  to  be  admired  through  her  writings.  Who  cannot 
sympathize  with  the  struggles,  the  heartaches,  the  search 
and  craving  after  human  sympathy  and  love,  of  a  woman 
with  the  gigantic  brain  of  George  Sand?  And  who  will 
judge  her  for  the  mistakes  she  may  have  made?  She  died 
in  1876;  she  is  now  with  her  God.  He  knows  to  what 
depth  her  heart  in  its  struggle  had  sunk,  and  he  will  judge 
her  righteously. 


J.    ROSS    BROWNE. 


MANY  years  ago,  on  the  deck  of  a  steamer  moored  to 
the  New  York  pier,  and  crowded  with  California- 
bound  passengers,  I  first  met  the  brilliant  author,  who  in 
after  years,  became  so  identified  with  the  Pacific  Coast,  and 
who,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  sixties  went  as  our  Minister 
Plenipotentiary  to  China. 

The  sun  never  shone  brighter  than  on  that  warm  July 
morning.  I  was  returning  to  San  Francisco  to  my  family. 
My  uncle,  General  James  D.  Thompson,  of  New  Bedford, 
Mass.,  stood  by  my  side.  In  ten  minutes  he, would  bid  me 
farewell  and  I  would  be  left  alone  with  that  vast  assembly. 
I  was  young  then,  I  had  not  yet  learned  to  battle  alone  with 
the  world.  I  had  only  seen  the  pleasant  side  of  life,  a 
mother's  and  a  husband's  love  had  protected  me  from  every 
chilling  blast,  that  I  have  since  found  borders  life's  pathway. 
I  was  indeed  disconsolate,  when  my  uncle  made  a  survey  of 
the  steamer  and  returning  said:  "I  have  found  one  man 
whose  appearance  tells  me  I  can  trust  you  with." 

It  was  Mr.  J.  Ross  Browne.     Cards  were  exchanged  and 

I  was  introduced  to  him  and  subsequently  to  his  wife  and 

interesting  family.     I  felt  I  had  met  an  old  friend  when  it 

became  known  that  Mr.  Browne  was  the  author  of  many 

3 


34  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

popular  books,  the  most  celebrated  being  "  Yufes,"  which 
was  then  at  its  height  of  popularity.  I  had  read  the  book, 
an  interesting  story  which  Mr.  Browne's  connection  with 
his  Syrian  dragoman  had  suggested. 

How  I  loved  to  talk  with  him;  I  would  look  forward  with 
real  pleasure  to  a  chance  of  having  a  promenade  with  him, 
and  treasure  up  all  I  could  call  forth  about  his  many  and 
extensive,  tours  to  the  remote  corners  of  the  world. 

I  also  learned  something  of  Mr.  Browne's  early  life,  a 
perusal  of  which  cannot  but  prove  interesting  to  those  who 
knew  him.  He  was  born  in  Dublin  and  was  the  son  of 
Thomas  Edgerton  Browne,  the  famous  editor  of  that  city, 
who  wrote  against  the  tithe  question,  which  so  enraged 
the  Catholic  clergy,  that  he  was  arrested  and  banished  from 
Ireland;  his  property,  with  the  exception  of  just  enough 
to  support  him  a  couple  of  years  in  America,  being  confis- 
cated. His  wife  and  the  mother  of  J.  Ross  Browne  was  a 
Miss  Burk,  a  sister  of  one  of  the  bishops  of  Dublin,  who 
with  the  rest  of  her  family  gave  her  up,  and  she  never  saw 
them  after  leaving  Ireland  with  her  husband. 

J.  Ross  was  a  lad  of  ten  years  when  the  family  came  to 
the  United  States  and  settled  in  Kentucky,  where  Browne 
Sr.  started  a  finishing  school  in  Louisville. 

When  the  subject  of  this,  sketch  was  nineteen  years  of 
age  a  great  passion  for  travel  took  possession  of  him,  and 
unknown  to  his  family  and  with  less  than  twenty  dollars  in 
his  possession  he  left  home,  to  start  around  the  world. 
During  this  trip  he  went  to  the  coast  of  Africa,  the  Indian 
sea,  island  of  Madeira,  Magotta,  etc.  In  speaking  of  the 
latter  named  isle,  Mr.  Browne  always  became  pensive  and 


J.    ROSS    BROWNE.  35 

happy.  On  one  occasion  he  exclaimed:  "It  was  indeed  a 
paradise — oh!  the  sweet  smell  of  the  fruit  and  the  flowers." 
So  fascinated  with  the  place  was  he,  that  he  named  his  first 
girl  after  that  paradise.  At  the  end  of  two  years,  during 
which  time  his  family  had  not  heard  from  him,  he  returned 
to  Washington,  where  his  family  then  resided.  At  the  age 
of  twenty-two,  one  year  after  his  return,  he  married  the 
beautiful  Mary  Mitchell,  daughter  of  Dr.  Mitchell  of  Wash- 
ington, who  was  a  near  relative  of  the  celebrated  Wier 
Mitchell  of  Philadelphia,  who  distinguished  himself  by 
giving  to  the  world  many  medical  books,  novels  and  poetry. 
Mr.  Browne  was  one  of  the  most  devoted  husbands  and 
fathers  I  have  ever  met.  During  all  of  his  travels  after  his 
marriage,  his  wife  and  children  were  his  companions.  Among 
Mr.  Browne's  works,  the  best  known  are,  "  The  Land  of 
Thor,"  "  Crusoe's  Island,"  "The  Apache  Country,"  "The 
Norway  Family  in  Germany  "  and  "  A  Whaling  Cruise/' 
which  has  been  allowed  was  the  best  description  of  the 
killing  of  a  whale  that  has  ever  been  given. 

Mr.  Browne  first  came  to  California  in  '49,  and  it  is  now 
about  twenty  years  ago,  and  after  his  return  from  China, 
that  he  built  his  beautiful  home,  in  something  of  China 
fashion,  on  "  Pagoda  Hill,"  Oakland,  which  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  places  in  that  part  of  the  country,  and  where 
the  author  of  "  Yufes  "  breathed  his  last  several  years  ago. 


PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY. 


ABOUT  seventeen  years  ago,  one  day  during  my  second 
visit  to  Europe,  I  found  myself  going  down  to  Not- 
tingham by  the  afternoon  express,  in  company  with  a  Mr. 
Gee,  the  owner  of  one  of  the  largest  Nottingham  lace 
factories  of  that  place.  I  was  to  be  shown  over  the  exten- 
sive works,  and  then  go  to  Mr.  Gee's  home  to  remain  over 
night. 

Just  after  leaving  London  my  companion  drew  my  atten- 
tion to  a  gentleman  sitting  opposite  to  us,  and  said:  "  That 
is  Mr.  Bailey,  the  author  of  '  Festus/  ^hall  I  present  him  ?  " 
"  Do,"  I  answered,  "  by  all  means."  "  Oh,  how  glad  I  am 
t)  meet  you,"  were  almost  my  first  words,  "  for  if  there  is  a 
book  that  has  drawn  tears  from  my  eyes,  it  is  that  wonderful 
pDem  of  yours  which  I  know  almost  by  heart."  Such  a 
pleasant  look  came  into  his  face,  and  he  said:  "  You  like 
Festus,  then  1"  "Yes,"  I  said.  "You  see  how  much  I 
like  it,"  and  with  this  remark  I  took  from  my  pocket  a  copy 
I  had  that  morning  purchased  on  my  way  to  the  depot. 

Mr.  Bailey  at  the  same  time  took  a  copy  from  his  overcoat 
pocket  saying:  "  I  believe  I  have  also  one  of  the  books  with 
me."  Then  I  begged  him  to  exchange  copies  with  me. 
"  But,"  said  he,  "  Yours  is  perfectly  new,  while  mine  is  much 


PHILIP   JAMES    BAILEY.  37 

worn."  "  So  much  the  better/'  was  my  reply.  He  saw  the 
compliment,  handed  me  his  book,  and  took  mine  with  my 
thanks  in  return. 

At  this  time,  Mr.  Bailey  was  a  man  in  the  sixties,  tall, 
spare  and  very  courteous.  He  lived  at  Nottingham  and 
was  a  barrister  at  law.  He  was  very  popular  in  his  town 
as  I  afterwards  discovered. 

Who  that  has  ever  read  Festus  will  forget  iU  The 
principle  borne  out  is  shown  in  one  of  his  verses : 

"  Evil  and  good  are  God's  right  hand  and  left. 
By  ministry  of  evil,  good  is  clear, 
And  by  temptation,  virtue:  As  of  yore 
Out  of  the  grave  rose  God." 

"  Festus  is  a  book  one  has  to  read  many  times  to  fully 
understand,  and  how  easy  it  is  to  memorize,"  I  said  that 
evening  when  Mr.  Bailey  dropped  in  to  his  friend's  to  make 
a  neighborly  call,  which  our  mutual  friend  made  through  a 
hint  from  me.  I  remember  one  passage  in  Festus  contai: 

this: 

"  I  have  seen  all  the  woes  of  men — pain,  death, 
Remorse,  and  worldly  ruin;  they  are  little 
Weighed  with  the  woe  of  woman,  when  forsaken 
By  him  she  loved  and  trusted." 

And  Mr.  Bailey  looked  like  a  man  who  could  write  just 
such  lines.  I  never  after  that  day  saw  the  author  again; 
whether  he  be  still  living  or  not  I  cannot  say.  But  I  do 
know  that  I  will  ever  remember  that  meeting,  and  that  I 
cherish  very  highly  the  b  jok  that  was  once  in  his  possession. 


38  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 


The  following  stanzas  were  written  to  me,  many  years 
ag°>  by  a  well-known  gentleman  of  San  Francisco,  and  for 
the  sake  of  their  beauty,  as  well  as  for  recollection  of  the 
past,  I  here  give  them  to  the  public  : 


TO 


Rather  than  be  one  joy  forgot 
Be  all  my  woes  remembered  too. 

I  stood  by  the  shore  in  sorrow  and  dread, 

Our  parting  was  o'er,  my  angel  had  fled. 

I  gazed  on  the  sea,  the  earth  and  the  air, 

All  whispered  to  me  of  loneliness  there. 

I  turned  me  to  faces  familiar  for  years 

And  found  but  the  traces  of  unbidden  tears. 

Why  brims  not  mine  eye  when  farewell  is  spoken  ? 

'Tis  that  eyelids  are  dry  when  heartstrings  are  broken. 

One  kind  look  she  gave  ere  hid  from  my  yiew 
That  speck  on  the  wave  had  faded  to  blue. 
One  kiss  from  those  eyes,  so  mournful  to-day 
That  agony  dries  their  tear-drops  away. 
And  thus  did  we  part — a  whispered  good-by, 
Warm  tears  in  the  heart  though  eyelids  were  dry. 
And  fadeless  and  bright  that  vision  shall  last, 
While  memory's  light  falls  back  on  the  past. 

Though  sadness  will  come  like  darkness  at  night 
O'er  spirits  that  come  far  off  from  their  light, 
Yet  memory  cheers  with  visions  of  love 
As  starry  light  peers  through  the  darkness  above. 
Though  parting  has  left  me  the  light  of  her  face, 
One  kind  look  is  left  me,  one  lasting  embrace, 
Ajid  Time  in  his  flight  shall  speed  him  amain 
To  bring  me  the  light  of  my  angel  again. 


ROSA    BONHEUK. 


ROSA  BONHEUR. 


IT  was  on  one  of  those  pleasant  Sunday  excursions  vvliich  are 
such  noted  features  of  Paris  life,  that  I  first  beheld  Fon- 
tainebleau.  It  may  be  reached  in  less  than  two  hours  by  the 
Lyons  railroad,  which  has  a  splendid  viaduct  of  thirty  arches 
at  the  station.  The  chief  attractions  of  the  place  are  its 
palace,  which  stands  unrivaled  for  its  magnificence,  the 
picturesque  forest  near  by,  and  the  "Cour  de  la  Fontaine," 
with  its  great  pond,  a  fine  piece  of  water  which  contains  a 
vast  number  of  carp,  many  of  them  of  great  age.  A  diver- 
sion peculiar  to  the  place,  consists  in  throwing  very  hard 
rolls  (sold  by  poor  women  on  the  spot)  into  the  pond,  and 
watching  the  eager  and  unsuccessful  attack  of  the  carp  upon 
them.  I  was  looking  at  this  sport,  laughing  at  the  antics 
of  the  fish,  when  I  noticed  that  several  people  were  staring 
in  my  direction.  Looking  about  me,  I  saw  that  the  person 
who  drew  the  attention  of  the  other  spectators  was  a  little 
stout  lady,  of  masculine  appearance,  her  hair  gray  in  places, 
and  parted  on  one  side;  bright,  black  eyes,  strongly  marked 
features  and  a  wonderfully  resolute  mouth.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  plain  black-silk  skirt,  with  a  vest  and  jacket  of  black 
velvet;  white  linen  collar  and  cuffs,  and  she  wore  a  fob  watch- 
chain  attached  to  a  watch,  which  she  carried  in  her  vest 
2* 


42  PEOPLE   I   HAVE   MET, 

pocket.  Altogether,  the  lady  presented  a  striking  appear^ 
ance.  I  hastened  to  meet  some  friends  who  were  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  pond.  Before  joining  my  party,  how- 
ever, I  lingered  long  enough  to  give  the  strange  lady  a 
chance  of  getting  ahead  of  me,  so  that  I  could  obtain  an- 
other good  look  at  her  as  she  passed.  I  was  much  surprised 
to  see  her  stop  and  talk  in  the  most  animated  and  friendly 
manner  to  my  friends,  and  when  I  came  up  to  them,  I  was 
introduced  to  Rosa  Bonheur.  I  was  prepared  to  hear  the 
name  of  a  celebrated  personage,  for,  in  spite  of  any  eccen- 
tricity of  dress,  the  true  Parisian  will  not  stare  unless  it  is 
really  at  someone  he  knows  to  be  a  celebrity.  Mile.  Bon- 
heur, although  a  person  past  60  years  of  age  at  that  time, 
looked  hardly  more  than  45.  She  bears  a  resolute  look 
about  her,  and  hard  work  does  not  seem  to  appall  her  or 
stand  in  the  way  of  her  success.  We  received  an  invitation 
to  her  atelier  for  the  next  day,  and  went  there  at  the  time 
appointed. 

Rosalie  Isadore  Bonheur  is  the  oldest  daughter  of  Ray- 
mond Bonheur,  a  painter,  who  gained  some  fame  in  his 
profession.  She  has  two  brothers  and  one  sister,  all  of  them 
artists  of  more  or  less  renown.  The  sister  Juliette  (Madam 
Peyrolles)  is  almost  the  only  female  friend  or  companion 
whom  Mile.  Bonheur  allows,  and  she  frequently  takes  charge 
of  the  School  of  Design,  which  is  under  the  care  of  Rosa. 
The  atelier  is  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Quartier  Latin. 
A  plain,  unpretending  court,  somewhat  neglected,  leads  to 
an  entrance  which  at  one  time  may  have  looked  interesting, 
but  is  now  hidden  beneath  a  crust  of  dust  and  dirt.  On 
the  first  floor  are  the  apartments  of  the  great  artist.  You 


ROSA   BONHEUR,  43 

enter  the  hallway  into  the  studio,  a  bright-enough  looking 
room,  with  light  streaming  in  from  two  windows.  The 
furniture  in  this  room  is  thoroughly  Bohemian-like.  Every- 
thing was  lying  around  in  picturesque  confusion — half- 
finished  pictures  on  idle  easels  and  broken  models  of  animals' 
heads.  Now  and  then  we  would  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  picture 
thrown  aside  for  future  manipulation.  "We  were  next  shown 
the  living  apartments  of  Mile.  Boiiheur  by  Mme.  Peyrolles, 
who  is  constantly  in  attendance  on  her  sister,  both  using 
the  same  studio.  Mile.  Bonheur  is  rather  silent,  but  learn- 
ing that  I  came  from  California,  she  brightened  up  and 
questioned  me  about  our  state.  Her  apartments  are  not 
remarkable  for  anything  save  the  absence  of  pictures.  Not 
one  single  oil  painting  has  she  in  either  parlor  or  sleeping- 
room.  In  1861  she  was  elected  Principal  of  the  Free  School 
of  Design  for  women,  and  she  told  me  that  it  had  been  a 
long  desire  on  her  part  to  help  women  in  the  walks  of  art- 
At  this  school  female  pupils  of  good  repute  can  go  through 
a  course  of  drawing,  wood  engraving,  paintirg,  etc.  It  is 
from  here  that  most  of  the  female  artists,  who  make  their 
living  by  painting  fans,  boxes,  bottles,  and  other  articles 
for  which  Paris  is  famous,  have  graduated. 

"  True,"  said  Mile.  Bonheur,  "it  is  not  the  highest  kind 
of  art,  bub  it  is  one  way  in  which  females  of  Paris  can  raise 
themselves  above  the  ordinary  labor  of  sewing  and  drudging, 
which  kills  so  many  every  year."  "Do  you  not  find  the 
cares  of  the  school  very  irksome?"  I  asked.  She  laugh- 
ingly turned  to  Mme.  Peyrolles,  and  said:  "  My  poor  sister 
must  bear  it  all.  Whenever  1  am  busy  or  do  not  feel  in  the 
humor,  she  does  the  work  at  the  school  for  me."  I  said  to 


44  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

her:  "  Do  you  find  that  women  as  a  rule  like  the  drudgery 
necessary  to  arrive  at  the  real  art  ultimately] "  She  an- 
swered with  a  very  characteristic  shrug  of  her  broad  shoul- 
ders: "  It  is  like  everything  else  that  women  undertake. 
Some  go  to  the  school  and  learn  just  the  first  rudiments, 
then  start  out  to  earn  their  living  the  best  way  they  can 
with  what  they  have  acquired.  There  are  others  whom  I 
an  deeply  interested  in;  they  work  from  day  to  day  dili- 
gently and  for  the  real  love  of  art.  I  think  I  can  safely 
predict  that  there  are  two  pupils  who  are  now  in  the  life- 
class  that  will  make  their  mark  as  artists." 

"  From  what  station  of  society  do  you  get  your  pupils  1 " 
"  From  all  classes.  Most  of  them  are  the  daughters  of  re- 
spectable clerks  or  small  tradesmen,  who  must  earn  their  own 
livelihood  some  way."  Mile.  Bonheur  showed  us  a  small 
portrait  of  herself,  painted  by  one  of  her  most  promising 
pupils.  "  This,"  said  she,  "  is  the  most  beautiful  piece  of 
artistic  work  that  has  ever  been  produced  in  the  School  of 
Design  in  Paris,  or  in  any  other  school  of  the  kind  I  know 
of.  The  coloring  is  exquisite,  the  tone  and  drawing  correct 
and  very  beautiful.  You  see,"  she  continued,  pointing  out 
every  merit  in  the  portrait,  "  how  originally  this  flesh  tint 
is  used,  and  how  the  effect  is  produced  1 "  I  was  convinced 
she  took  a  deep  interest  in  the  school  and  her  pupils.  I 
asked  her  what  she  thougl.it  of  her  fellow-artists  in  Paris — 
Meissonnier,  Gerome  and  Dore"  1  "Divine,"  said  she.  "I  am 
proud  to  be  called  their  confrere.  I  think  art  is  appreciated 
in  Paris  as  it  is  in  no  other  part  of  the  world.  I  have  been 
in  London,  Vienna,  Dresden,  Dusseldorf,  Munich,  Leipsic, 
and  most  all  the  art  centers  of  Europe,  but  nowhere  does 


ROSA    BONHEUR.  45 

art  hold  so  lofty  a  stand  as  in  Paris."  When  I  inquired 
what  she  thought  of  American  art  and  artists,  she  smiled  in 
a  most  charming  manner,  and  said:  "  You  are  an  American, 
what  can  I  say.  They  are  the  best  after  my  countrymen." 
I  laughed,  and  so  we  chatted  on  from  one  subject  to  another. 
Her  countenance  brightens  up  wonderfully  when  she  is 
absorbed  or  interested  in  her  conversation.  She  strikes  one, 
on  becoming  first  acquainted,  as  a  rather  stern  and  forbid- 
ding woman,  but  it  is  not  so;  she  is,  like  all  cultivated  French 
women,  a  good  conversationalist,  and  touching  art  she  is  in 
her  element,  having  been  surrounded  all  her  life  by  art  and 
artists. 

To  strangers,  she  speaks  very  little  of  her  father;  of  her 
brothers  very  little  is  known,  except  that  in  late  years, 
through  the  name  they  bear  and  the  influence  which  their 
sister  used  for  them,  some  of  their  pictures  have  brought 
good  prices.  Mile.  Bonheur  exhibited  pictures  many  years 
ago,  and  for  one  who  has  been  in  the  profession  so  long,  it 
is  surprising  how  very  few  she  has  produced,  but  this  is 
because  she  works  exceedingly  slow  and  very  careful.  Her 
pictures  bring  enormous  prices,  ranking  even  higher  than 
those  of  Gerome,  and  are  generally  given  the  place  of  honor 
at  the  art  exhibition.  I  asked  her  how  she  became  exclu- 
sively an  animal  painter] 

She  answered,  laughing,  "  I  am  very  fond  of  all  animals, 
and  not  at  all  afraid  of  them.  If  I  had  not  become  a 
painter,  I  should  have  made  an  excellent  lion-queen  in  some 
menagerie.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  an  accident,  and  I  will 
tell  you  how.  You  see  in  my  father's  studio  we  used  to 
play,  and  I,  being  the  eldest,  had  to  look  out  for  my  younger 


46  PEOPLE   1    HAVE   MET. 

brothers  and  sister,  so  that  they  would  not  get  into  the  way 
or  disturb  him  at  his  work.  We  had  four  kittens  to  play 
with.  One  day  it  suddenly  entered  my  head  to  play  painter. 
Of  course  I  had  received  a  great  many  lessons  in  painting 
and  drawing  from  my  fathe^,  so  that  I  was  not  entirely 
without  knowledge.  I  took  the  kittens  and  put  them  all 
in  a  heap,  making  the  other  children  keep  them  together 
while  I  went  to  work  to  paint  them.  We  had  a  great  deal 
of  fun,  I  remember,  in  keeping  the  restless  things  in  their 
places.  I  painted  the  group  as  well  as  I  could  that  after- 
noon, and  for  three  or  four  days  we  amused  ourselves  with 
them.  My  father  did  not  give  me  the  least  aid;  so  of  course 
the  picture  did  not  amount  to  much,  and  was  thrown  aside 
as  children's  toys  usually  are  when  they  tire  of  them.  One 
day,  about  nine  years  after  I  had  striven  to  paint  other  sub- 
jects, but  not  with  a  great  deal  of  success,  I  ran  across  my 
youthful  effort  —the  group  of  four  kittens.  I  liked  the 
natural  pose  so  much  that,  more  for  amusement  than  earn- 
estness, I  put  the  picture  on  my  easel  and  painted  it  over. 
When  I  had  finished  it  some  friends  happened  to  see  it,  and 
it  was  pronounced  my  masterpiece.  I  exhibited  it  with 
other  works,  and  from  that  I  date  my  first  success." 

"  Which  of  your  pictures  do  you  consider  the  best]'' 
'  The  Tiger  and  Hyena,'  which  was  exhibited  with  others  in 
1867  at  the  exhibition;  also,  <  The  Horse  Fair,'  "  she  replied, 
and  then  continued:  "  I  must  tell  you  under  what  difficulties 
I  labored  to  get  '  The  Horse  Fair '  done.  I  attended  the 
horse  fair  every  day  in  order  to  paint  it  just  as  it  was.  One 
day  I  was  sitting  alone  working,  not  paying  attention  to 
anything  but  my  work  before  me,  when  I  was  startled  by  a 


ROSA   BONHEUR,  47 

horse's  head  right  over  my  shoulder,  looking  as  it  were,  at 
my  work.  I  merely  looked  around  to  see  my  admirer,  the 
horse;  but  alas!  it  was  too  late — he  had  stepped  into  my  box 
of  colors,  and  I  suppose  taking  fright  at  my  scream  of  dismay, 
he  gave  one  bound  ahead,  overturned  my  easel,  and  stepped 
on  my  canvas,  tearing  a  hole  right  through  the  center  of  my 
cherished  piece  of  work.  Owing  to  the  friendliness  of  that 
horse,  I  had  all  my  work  to  do  over  again."  Her  principal 
pictures  are,  aside  from  those  already  named,  "Horses  for 
Sale,"  "Cats'  Cradle,"  and  "Shetland  Ponies."  She  has 
painted  about  fifty — -and  all  animal  subjects,  more  or  less 
famous.  I  asked  her  if  she  was  fond  of  her  fellow-artists. 
She  answered  with  her  significent  shrug — c:  With  some.  I 
am  at  heart  and  soul  a  Bohemian,  and  when  I  find  people, 
artists  or  others,  who  are  congenial,  I  like  to  associate  with 
them;  but  you  see  I  do  not  have  a  great  deal  of  time.  When 
I  go  for  an  excursion,  I  generally  start  alone.  Fontaine- 
bleau  is  my  favorite  place  to  visit,  and  if  I  could  paint  fish 
well,  my  favorites  at  Cour  de  la  Fontaine  would  find  a  place 
on  my  canvas.  How  I  enjoy  seeing  them  snap  at  the  rolls, 
and  how  quick  they  let  them  go  again  when  they  find  they 
are  too  hard;  but  the  rogues  know  that  the  water  softens 
them,  so  they  let  them  float  for  a  while,  keeping  a  good 
lookout  for  their  particular  bun."  She  laughed  so  unaffect- 
edly, that  I  joined,  and  hoped  that  we  might  meet  again;  a 
wish  that  was  gratified. 

Our  adieus  were  said,  and  I  parted  from  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  women  of  our  age. 


OSCAR  WILDE. 


All  San  Francisco  will  remember  when  Oscar  Wilde 
aired  his  aesthetic  views  to  crowded  houses  some  ten  years 
ago  in  this  city.  I  saw  the  lion  in  his  lair — saw  him  stirred 
up,  poetically  speaking — and  an  interesting  process  it  was. 
It  took  place  at  the  Palace  Hotel,  where  the  young  poet 
resided  during  his  stay  here.  Without  further  prelimina- 
ries, I  will  endeavor  to  picture  Oscar  Wilde's  at-home  man- 
ner, and  how  he  existed  in  so  unaasthetic  a  caravansary  as 
the  Palace  Hotel.  Fortunately,  there  was  plenty  of  time  to 
get  a  good  look  at  the  room,  and  to  peer  about  without 
transgressing  any  social  rules;  for  when  I  arrived,  as  per 
appointment,  there  was  no  one  but  his  servant  at  home,  and 
there  was  opportunity  to  get  an  uninterrupted  few  minutes, 
and  jot  down  whatever  was  remarkable.  Between  the  fear  of 
not  seeing  everything  and  of  his  sudden  arrival,  I  could  only 
get  cursory  glimpses  of  the  peculiarities  the  room  afforded, 
and  had  but  little  time  to  think  of  what  I  had  to  ask  him 
when  he  did  make  his  appearance.  At  any  rate  all  the 
questions  I  had  in  my  mind  in  reference  to  Mr.  Wilde  flew 
from  me  when  he  entered  the  room  a  few  moments  after  I 
did.  His  lazy  mariner  and  my  hard  effort  to  explain  in  a 
depressed  sort  of  way,  occasioned  by  my  feeling  of  strange- 


OSCAR   WILDE.  49 

ness,  soon  made  matters  rather  one-sided.  But  after  a  time 
I  regained  my  ordinary  frame  of  mind,  but  still  with  a  mis- 
giving as  how  to  broach  my  subject;  but  his  action  in 
throwing  off  his  circular  cloak,  the  quick  and  well-rehearsed 
movement  of  the  servant,  who  reached  the  center  of  the  room 
just  at  the  right  moment  to  catch  the  outside  wrap  of  the 
poet,  and  his  subsequent  position  on  the  sofa,  partaking 
rather  of  an  easy  posture,  half -reclining,  half- sitting,  put  me 
quite  at  ease,  and  the  -poet,  whom  I  had  expected  to  lead  me 
in  the  empyrean  ways  of  poetic  fancy,  for  which  I  was  half 
prepared,  made  me  believe  so  utterly  in  the  mere  common- 
place, that  I  felt  a  sense  of  disappointment,  for  it  is  so 
awful  to  believe  in  a  man's  superiority  and  then  find  him 
out. 

At  last  I  said  at  haphazard:  "  How  do  you  manage  to 
live  in  these  rooms  without  any  surrounding  sign  of  the 
beautiful,  Mr.  Wilde  V  Quoth  he,  with  an  accompaniment 
of  a  rather  comfortable  shudder,  "  Don't  mention  it." 

Since  he  requested  me  not  to  mention  it,  I  dropped  the 
question  of  the  beautiful  in  art,  or  whatever  else  was  in  my 
mind  pertaining  to  the  subject,  and  naturally  did  what  ninety- 
nine  people  out  of  every  hundred,  when  a  lack  of  material  for 
conversation  occurred,  would  do,  I  spoke  of  myself:  "  Is  not 
this  something  new  to  you,  Mr.  Wilde.  I  suppose  you 
never  before  met  a  lady  reporter  V  "  N"o,"  he  replied,  smil- 
ingly, "  I  have  not;  we  don't  have  them  in  our  country." 

Glancing  around  the  room  a  pile  of  newspapers  attracted 
my  not:ce,  and  naturally  suggested  the  next  question:  "Are 
you  pleased  at  the  newspaper  reports  of  yourself,  and  the 
reporter's  interviews  ?"  Evidently  this  had  struck  a  rich 


5<3  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

vein,  for  he  looked  up  with  a  peculiar  and  hearty  smile;  but, 
evidently  remembering  that  his  questioner  was  of  the  same 
genus  as  the  subject  spoken  about,  he  seemed  to  restrain 
himself,  but  replied,  with  a  laugh:  "  Frankly,  then,  I  read 
them  all;  and  not  only  here  but  all  over  America,  T  have 
been  quite  amused  at  the  struggle  each  of  the  gentlemen  has 
had  to  write  what  T  did  not  say;  but  I  have  the  most  sym- 
pathy with  the  writers  of  the  articles  which  strive  to  be 
what  is  called  here  in  the  United  States  '  funny,'  their  hard 
work  has  been  so  apparent." 

From  this  on  the  conversation  was  quite  easy,  and  Mr. 
Wilde  displayed  a  fund  of  shrewd  common  sense  hardly  to 
be  expected  from  an  art-enthusiast  and  a  poet.  The  con- 
versation on  his  part  gave  me  full  opportunity  to  memo- 
rize the  disposition  of  every  article  of  furniture  in  the  room, 
and  that  a  certain  eccentric  individuality  of  the  man  was 
displayed  in  every  phase  of  the  furniture  could  not  be  gainsaid. 
A  full  description  of  the  apartment  would  at  this  time  take 
up  too  much  space.  During  our  conversation  several  cards 
were  handed  in,  and  among  other  things  the  servant  brought 
in  an  autographic  album,  with  some  one's  compliments  and  a 
request  for  Mr.  Wilde's  little  contribution  to  the  general 
collection.  He  arose,  seated  himself  at  the  table  with  the 
open  book  before  him,  and  in  a  posture  which  excellently 
expressed  thought,  he  tried  to  evolve  something  for  the  in- 
evitable autograph-hunter  and  great  American  nuisance. 
The  inspirational  mood  was  not,  however,  on  him.  He  arose, 
gracefully  spread  his  arm  over  an  almost  impossible  distance, 
and  with  an  admirable  breadth  of  reach,  got  hold  of  a  copy 
of  his  own  poems,  sat  down  again  and  said  to  me:  "  One 


OSCAR   WILDE.  51 

sometimes  forgets  one's  own  lines."  The  struggle  was  short 
and  had  to  be  given  up,  so  he  bade  the  servant  tell  the  mes- 
senger to  "leave  the  album,  as  I  am  too  much  engaged  just 
now;"  this  with  a  glance  at  me. 

A  few  moments  later  another  album  was  sent  in,  and  the 
message  repeated — without  the  glance,  however.  Among 
other  questions,  and  they  were  legion,  I  asked  him, "At  what 
hour  of  the  day  do  you  find  it  most  convenient  to  write  T 

"  At  no  particular  hour.  In  writing  a  verse  I  sometimes 
wait  for  the  exact  mood,  and  it  takes  weeks  at  a  time  before 
I  get  the  exact  word  to  express  my  thought  in  the  comple- 
tion of  a  sentence  or  a  line." 

From  the  conversation  that  followed  I  learned  that  Mr. 
Wilde  was  born  at  Dublin,  and  that  his  mother,  of  whom  he 
is  very  proud,  inspired  him  with  the  desire  to  become  a  poet. 

On  being  asked  as  to  the  age  expressed  in  the  last  verse 
of  his  poem,  beginning  with 

"Sweet,  I  blame  you  not," 
which  interests  all  women,  and  ending  with 

"  I  have  made  my  choice,  have  lived  my  poems, 
And  though  youth  is  gone  in  wasted  days 

I  have  found  the  lover's  crown  of  myrtle  better 
Than  the  poet's  crown  of  bays?" 

He  replied,  "  Sometimes  one  feels  older  at  twenty  than 
he  will  at  forty." 

During  the  conversation  about  his  poems,  he  ceitainly 
evidenced  a  belief  in  them,  and  gave  way  to  his  enthusiasm 
by  frequent  gestures.  Youthful  fervor  carries  with  it  a 
sense  of  truth,  and  if  the  word  "  utter,"  as  expressed  by  this 
aesthete,  means  ardor,  coupled  with  a  sense  of  art  and  what 


52  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

is  beautiful  in  the  world,  it  is  a  good  word,  and  ought  to  be 
a  welcome  word  in  our  vocabulary,  which  after  all,  is  not 
replete  with  adjectives  expressive  of  things  that  are  beauti- 
ful, as  a  lady-reporter  can  testify. 


MRS.  HUMPHREY  MOORE. 


DURING  the  many  years  I  have  filled  the  position  of 
reporter  for  the  best  papers  of  San  Francisco,  it  has 
been  my  good  fortune  to  form  the  acquaintance  of  some  of 
the  most  brilliant  and  well-known  people  who  have  come  to 
this  coast — acquaintances  which  in  many  instances,  turned 
into  warm  and  lasting  friendships. 

A  few  years  ago,  there  came  to  San  Francisco  the  cele- 
brated American  artist,  Mr.  Humphrey  Moore,  and  his 
beautiful  and  accomplished  wife,  the  subject*  of  this  sketch. 
I  was  detailed  to  call  upon  them  and  learn  something  of 
their  lives,  which  I  could  give  to  the  public  through  the 
medium  of  the  paper  which  I  was  then  connected  with.  I 
found  both  husband  and  wife  so  agreeable,  and  received  so 
warm  an  invitation  to  visit  his  studio,  that  I  spent  many  a 
half  hour  there,  feeding  my  eyes  on  his  magnificent  works; 
and  when  I  was  last  in  Paris,  I  found  them  as  kind  and 
pleasant  as  ever. 

Mrs.  Moore's  history  is  of  more  than  ordinary  interest. 
She  is  notable,  not  only  on  account  of  being  the  wife  of  the 
deaf  and  dumb  artist,  but  for  her  beauty,  intelligence  and 
high  family  connections.  And  I  am  sure  a  brief  sketch  of 
her  life  cannot  but  prove  interesting  to  my  readers.  Isabella 
de  Cistue  was  born  in  Saragossa  about  thirty  years  ago,  of 


54  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

purely  Castilian  parents.  Her  father  was  Colonel  Cistue, 
one  of  the  sons  of  Baron  de  la  Mensglena,  who  belonged  to 
one  of  the  most  aristocratic  families  of  Spain;  and  her  grand- 
mother held  the  high  position  of  a  lady  of  honor  to  the 
beautiful  and  powerful  Queen  Maria  Louisa,  so  fondly  re- 
membered by  the  Spaniards. 

Mrs.  Moore  is  also  a  cousin  by  marriage  to  the  ex-Queen 
Isabella,  two  of  her  cousins  having  married  the  two  brothers 
of  that  personage.  Sefiorita  de  Cistue  was  sent  at  an  early 
age  to  the  college  of  Loretto,  in  Madrid,  where  she  received 
a  brilliant  and  finished  education,  graduating  before  she  was 
sixteen  years  of  age,  proficient  in  three  languages  and  mistress 
of  the  piano,  harp  and  guitar.  When  Isabella  was  but  a 
girl  five  years  old,  she  met  a  child  of  about  her  own  age  who 
was  both  deaf  and  dumb,  but  who  was  well  learned  in  the 
mute  language.  The  two  children  formed  a  strong  attach- 
ment for  each  other,  and  Isabella  begged  she  might  be 
taught  to  converse  with  her  little  friend.  About  this  time 
her  eldest  brother  came  home  from  college  on  a  long  vaca- 
tion, bringing  with  him  a  friend  of  his,  a  handsome  young 
Spaniard  of  about  seventeen  years  of  age,  with  the  title  of 
Marquis.  This  young  nobleman  was  also  deaf  and  dumb, 
and  from  him  the  little  Isabella  learned  to  converse  with  her 
fingers,  and  subsequently  became  the  constant  friend  and 
protector  in  her  childish  way,  of  her  dumb  little  playmate. 
Time  passed  on;  the  heroine  of  this  sketch  grew  to  a  lovely 
young  lady  of  the  true  Moorish  type  of  beauty.  Her  coal- 
black  hair,  beautiful  flashing  black  eyes,  and  clear,  rich, 
olive  complexion,  became  a  theme  for  the  poet  and  the 
painter  in  Granada,  where  she  resided  after  having  left 


MRS.    HUMPHREY    MOORE.  55 

school  in  Madrid.  A  favorite  walk  of  hers  was  through  the 
gardens  of  the  Alhambra,  where  many  an  hour  was  passed, 
chaperoned  by  some  of  her  family,  but  generally  by  her 
grandmother,  then  no  longer  the  handsome  maid  of  honor. 
One  day  as  the  two  ladies  were  walking  in  a  secluded  but 
most  beautifully  romantic  spot  of  the  garden,  they  suddenly 
came  upon  a  gentleman  of  about  twenty-four  years  of  age, 
of  medium  height,  rather  florid  ^complexion,  large,  soft  and 
speaking  blue  eyes,  light  auburn  hair  and  delicately-shaped 
mustache.  He  was  sketching,  what  afterward  became  a  fine 
work  of  art,  known  as  "  Views  of  Granada."  Upon  the 
approach  of  the  ladies,  the  artist  arose  and  handed  to  the 
dazzling  young  Spanish  beauty  her  handkerchief  which  had 
fallen  from  her  hand.  Their  eyes  met.  She  passed  on,  and 
the  artist  resumed  his  work. 

Upon  several  subsequent  days  they  accidentally  met. 
The  artist  was  less  attentive  to  his  work,  and  a  Spanish 
nobleman,  who  had  been  a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  the  young 
Seiiorita,  received  less  encouragement.  About  a  month 
after  the  first  meeting  in  the  garden,  while  the  artist  was 
pacing  up  and  down  in  his  studio,  a  gentleman  friend 
named  De  Castillo  called  upon  him.  To  him  the  artist 
unbosomed  himself.  He  declared  he  could  do  no  more  work 
until  he  had  painted  a  picture  of  the  lady  whose  appear- 
ance had  so  strongly  affected  him.  Then  taking  De  Cas- 
tillo's arm,  they  went  out  and  wandered  to  the  Alhambra 
Gardens.  There  he  again  saw  the  object  of  his  infatuation. 
She  was  conversing  in  the  deaf-and-dumb  language  with  the 
Spanish  marquis,  who  had  taught  her  the  hand  manual 
years  back,  when  she  was  a  child.  De  Castillo,  knowing 


56  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

the  marquis,  introduced  him  to  the  artist,  and  the  marquis 
then  presented  his  companions,  who  were  Isabella  and  her 
grandmother.  Much  to  Isabella's  surprise,  she  discovered 
that  the  handsome  young  artist  was  deaf  and  dumb!  Then 
she  found  greater  happiness  in  the  use  of  the  dumb  language 
than  she  had  ever  before  experienced.  To  his  earnest  solici- 
tations, she  sat  for  a  portrait,  which  she  now  has  in  her 
possession.  Though  titled  suitors  sought  her  hand,  and  she 
was  even  invited  to  become  maid  of  honor  to  the  then 
reigning  Queen  Isabella,  she  cheerfully  renounced  all  this 
pomp  and  brilliancy  to  bestow  her  heart  and  hand  on  the 
deaf-and-dumb  American  artist.  H.  Humphrey  Moore  is 
well  known  in  San  Francisco,  where  he  lived  from  early 
childhood,  up  to  1865,  at  which  time  his  father,  who  will 
be  remembered  in  the  firm  of  Moore  &  Folger,  died.  He 
was  twenty-one  years  of  age  when  his  mother,  who  has  lived 
in  San  Francisco  for  several  years,  accompanied  him  to  Eu- 
rope, where  for  three  years  he  labored  hard  at  his  profession 
in  the  studio  of  the  greatest  figure-painter  in  France — 
Gerome.  It  was  while  in  Granada,  that  Mr.  Moore  met 
with  Fortuny,  whose  style  of  work  is  followed  by  him.  Mr- 
Moore's  name  was  forcibly  brought  to  the  minds  of  his  Cal- 
ifornia friends  some  eight  or  ten  years  ago,  when  he  sent  to 
this  coast  for  exhibition  his  celebrated  work  "  Almeh,  the 
Eastern  Dancing  Girl."  Mrs.  Moore  is  devoted  to  her  hus- 
band, and  justly  proud  of  his  talents.  She  is  his  constant 
companion  in  his  studio;  and  day  after  day,  in  winter  and 
summer,  whatever  else  may  claim  her  attention,  from  four 
to  six  o'clock  she  devotes  to  a  study  of  his  canvases  and 
the  work  of  her  husband's  brush  during  the  day. 


MRS.    HUMPHREY    MOORE. 


57 


Among  the  first,  in  fact  the  very  first,  to  entertain  and 
present  to  San  Francisco  society  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moore,  was 
Mrs.  Senator  George  Hearst. 

The  subjects  of  this  sketch  are  now  located  in  Paris,  where 
Mr.  Moore  has  a  well-appointed  studio,  and  where  Mrs. 
Moore  is  a  constant  companion. 


JFI7BRSIT7 


LEOPOLD  II,  KING  OF  BELGIUM. 


LEOPOLD    II,    KING    OF     BELGIUM. 


IN  referring  to  my  meeting  with  the  handsome  King  Leo- 
pold, I  am  reminded  of  the  many  years  that  have  gone 
by  since  then.  Yes,  it  is  now  nearly  eighteen  years  since 
the  photograph,  from  which  the  above  likeness  has  been 
taken,  was  presented  to  me.  But  before  proceeding  further, 
let  me  give  a  few  words  regarding  the  Belgian  capital. 

From  London  per  steamer  to  Antwerp,  a  hasty  glance  at 
the  old  Dutch  city,  and  thence  by  rail  to  Brussels.  The 
Belgium  capital  on  a  bright  day,  presents  so  many  varied 
views,  so  many  bright  scenes,  that  it  well  deserves  its  name 
of  "  Little  Paris."  The  dresses  of  the  country  people,  with 
the  more  fashionable  attire  of  the  city's  inhabitants,  and  the 
many  quaint  vehicles  from  the  environs  of  Brussels,  form  a 
contrast  most  picturesque.  The  peasants  of  Belgium  still 
adhere  to  their  old  national  costumes,  which  are  certainly  a 
study.  In  the  moraing,  the  principal  street  is  lively  with 
the  flower-girls,  milk-venders,  market-women  and  artisans 
going  to  their  various  occupations.  The  milk-women  are 
generally  middle-aged,  stout,  healthy  peasants,  who  live  from 
five  to  ten  miles  from  the  city,  and  trudge  to  and  from  their 
work  through  storm  and  sunshine,  day  after  day.  They 
each  have  a  small  wagon,  which  is  drawn  by  a  half-starved 


62  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

dog.  The  women  are  neatly  dressed  in  short  skirts,  thick, 
wooden  shoes,  white  aprons,  plaid  shawls  across  their  shoul- 
ders, and  the  peculiar  Belgian  cap,  with  the  long  tabs  of 
white  muslin  falling  over  the  ears.  The  flower-girls  have 
the  same  healthy  look.  They  are  dressed  in  short  skirts, 
displaying  clumsy  feet  and  ankles ;  a  hat  which  looks  like 
an  inverted  tin  pan,  hair  hanging  down  in  plaits,  and  a  comb 
that  projects  on  either  side  behind  the  ears  and  looks  like  the 
wings  of  a  windmill.  They  carry  baskets  heaped  with  flow- 
ers on  their  heads,  while  their  hands  are  kept  busy  knitting. 
But  the  most  noted  feature  of  Brussels'  industry,  as  we  all 
know,  is  the  lace  factories,  where  hundreds  of  women  find  a 
means  of  subsistence;  the  most  celebrated  of  these  laces 
being  Brussels,  point  applique,  round  point,  point  d'alen9on 
and  the  most  delicate  of  all,  point  de  Yenise.  The  lace-mak- 
ers are  more  intelligent  looking  then  the  milk-venders  and 
the  flower-girls,  but  dress  the  same,  with  the  proverbial 
plaid  shawl  and  pure  white  caps,  only  of  a  finer  texture. 
Our  first  excursion,  while  staying  in  Brussels,  was  to 
Lacken,  the  palace  of  the  King  Leopold  II,  who  until  the 
differences  with  the  church  party,  a  few  years  ago,  was  one 
of  the  most  popular  monarchs  of  all  Europe.  Lacken  is  a 
few  miles  from  Brussels,  and  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
palaces  on  the  Continent;  at  least  it  was  until  last  year,  when 
it  was  partly  des  royed  by  fire.  The  grounds  were  laid  out 
with  artistic  taste,  and  the  edifice  was  indeed  imposing.  It 
has  a  history  varied  and  romantic.  It  was  built  for  the 
charitable  Austrian  Princess  Maria  Christiana  in  1782. 
After  the  invasion  of  the  French  in  1792,  it  was  converted 
into  a  hospital,  the  Archduke  Charles  having  sold  it  to  a 


LEOPOLD    II,    KING   OF    BELGIUM.  63 

surgeon.  In  1793-94,  when  all  France  flowed  with  blood, 
some  of  the  refugees  found  shelter  there.  Among  the  num- 
ber was  the  painter  De  Lys  and  his  entire  family,  which 
consisted  of  two  sons,  his  daughter  (a  beautiful  young  lady 
of  about  twenty  years)  and  his  devoted  wife.  They  were 
all  arrested  on  a  trumped-up  charge  of  incivism  and  sent  to 
the  Luxembourg ;  but,  owing  to  some  friendly  influence 
they  were  released,  only  to  be  threatened  again  by  the  pop- 
ulace, who  hated  De  Lys  because  he  had  been  a  favorite  at 
the  court  of  Louis  XVI.  De  Lys,  knowing  his  danger, 
made  his  escape  in  disguise.  In  order  not  to  excite  suspicion 
two  conveyances  were  used:  the  first  carriage  contained  De 
Lys  and  his  daughter;  the  second,  his  wife  and  sons.  They 
started  at  different  points  at  an  interval  of  half  an  hour. 
The  first,  containing  the  father  and  daughter,  arrived  safely 
in  Brussels;  but  the  second  was  overtaken,  and  its  occupants 
were  returned  to  Paris  and  there  executed.  De  Lys,  over- 
come by  the  sad  fate  of  his  family,  sickened  and  finally  be- 
came insane.  He  was  taken  to  the  hospital  at  Lacken, 
where  he  was  recognized  by  the  surgeon  and  treated  kindly, 
but  never  recovered.  He  died  before  the  year  expired,  and 
the  brave  young  girl  his  daughter,  having  attended  him 
faithfully,  soon  followed  him  to  the  grave.  De  Lys  painted 
the  celebrated  picture  "  Death's  Dance  at  the  Guillotine," 
which,  before  the  fire  there,  hung  in  the  gallery  at  the  palace, 
but  was  destroyed.  The  picture  was  known  as  showing  more 
power  in  drawing  then  anything  else  that  artist  ever  did.  The 
coloring  was  peculiar,  and  showed  that  the  artist  was  insane. 
After  the  palace  had  been  used  as  a  hospital,  it  was  re- 
constructed by  the  architect  who  built  it,  the  famous 


64  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

"  Geefs."  Napoleon  and  Marie  Louise  took  up  their  resi- 
dence here  for  a  time.  The  road  leading  to  Lacken  is  un- 
surpassed, being  lined  on  both  sides  by  immense  trees  forming 
a  shadowed  roadway  five  miles  long.  The  palace  stands 
near  an  artificial  lake,  in  the  center  of  which  is  a  fountain, 
said  to  have  the  greatest  powers  of  any  in  Europe;  spouting  to 
a  height  of  over  200  feet.  It  was  while  visiting  this  palace, 
that  I  first  saw  the  King  of  the  Belgians.  Leopold  Marie 
Victor  is  the  son  of  Leopold  I  and  Louisa,  daughter  of  Louis 
Philippe.  He  was  born  the  9th  of  April,  1825,  and  as 
prince  was  known  as  the  Duke  of  Brabant.  He  is  a  second 
cousin  of  the  English  Queen  and  brother  of  the  ex-Empress, 
"poor  Carlotta  "  of  Mexic  x  At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  mar- 
ried Marie  Henriette,  daughter  of  the  Archduke  Joseph  of 
Austria,  Palatine  of  Hungary.  His  only  son  died  in  1869. 
The  King  has  three  daughters  living.  Leopold  II  ascended 
the  throne  in  1865,  and  has  since  followed  the  policy  of  his 
father.  He  received  a  thorough  education,  and  traveled  for 
many  years,  very  frequently  incognito.  He  speaks  nine 
languages,  excelling  in  the  correct  pronunciation  of  each. 
In  speaking  English  it  is  difficult  to  detect' that  he  was  not 
born  and  raised  an  Englishman.  When  I  saw  him  he 
looked  very  plain,  and  indeed,  was  mistaken  by  roe  for  a 
traveler,  who  seemed  familiar  with  the  palace  and  its 
grounds.  He  was  sitting  on  a  rustic  bench  in  the  park, 
smoking  a  cigar  and  looking  over  a  newspaper,  and  dressed 
in  a  light  suit  of  English  cloth.  I  had  wandered  from  the 
party  I  was  with  and  had  lost  my  way,  and  really  was  glad 
to  find  someone  who  I  hoped  would  direct  me  to  the  entrance, 
where  I  knew  the  carriage  was  standing. 


LEOPOLD  II,  KING  OF  BELGIUM.       65 

In  return  to  a  bow  he  courteously  raised  his  hat,  and  as 
he  again  took  up  his  paper,  I  passed  on,  never  giving  the 
strange  gentleman  a  second  thought.  Soon  after  the  gen- 
tleman passed  by,  and  then  noticing  that  he  was  slightly 
lame,  it  dawned  upon  me  that  he  was  the  King  of  the  Bel- 
gians. As  I  passed  a  turn  in  the  road,  I  noticed  a  photo- 
graphic card  on  the  ground,  turned  upside  down.  The 
King  evidently  imagined  I  had  dropped  it,  and  as  he  stooped 
to  pick  it  up  in  passing  me,  he  said  in  French,  "  Pardon, 
madam,  you  have  lost  something."  I  took  it  and  was  about 
to  say  it  was  not  mine,  when  turning  the  face-side  to  me,  I 
immediately  said  in  English,  "  Oh,  thank  you  very  much." 
He  saw  as  well  as  I  it  was  a  picture  of  himself,  and  we  both 
smiled.  Some  tourist  had  evidently  bought  the  card  in 
town  and  lost  it  there  in  the  park.  However,  I  took  it 
with  all  the  coolness  of  an  expert  thief.  When  I  spoke  to 
him,  he  exclaimed:  "  Ah,  an  American,  it  is  very  seldom 
any  American  comes  to  Lacken."  At  this  moment  a  liveried 
attendant  came  to  tell  him  the  carriage  was  ready. 

The  King  is  a  tall,  well-built  man  with  a  noble-looking 
face.  He  wears  a  full  beard,  and  has  mild  blue  eyes.  On 
approaching  the  pilace,  it  was  evident  he  had  been  waiting 
for  his  equipage.  To  the  carriage  were  harnessed  four  white, 
beautiful  horses,  their  heads  adorned  with  high,  red  plumes. 
Two  outriders  were  already  mounted  on  white  horses.  The 
driver  held  the  reins  and  the  footman  held  the  carriage  door 
open.  The  King  was  going  to  meet  the  Queen  at  the  station 
in  Brussels,  who  was  on  her  return  from  Spa.  During  his 
absence  I  had  a  chance  to  wander  around  the  grounds.  I 
had  found  my  friends  and  we  were  just  leaving  Lacken,  when 
4* 


66  PEOPLE   I    HAVE   MET, 

he  returned  with  the  Queen,  who  was  seated  by  his  side. 
She  wore  a  plain  drab-colored  traveling  suit,  and  black 
bonnet.  She  appeared  to  be  a  woman  in  the  prime  of  life, 
not  handsome;  but  gentle  and  very  lovable.  In  a  carriage 
following  the  royal  pair  sat  a  single  attendant  of  the  Queen, 
holding  in  her  lap  a  favorite  dog* 

The  next  day  I  saw  the  King  again,  and  had  a  better 
opportunity  of  viewing  him.  About  eight  miles  from  Brus- 
sels is  the  famed  hamlet  of  Waterloo.  It  borders  on  the 
forest  of  Soignes  and  is  the  favorite  resort  of  tourists.  In 
the  forest  of  Soignes  the  King  has  a  shooting-box.  Game  is 
not  very  plentiful,  but  he  comes  to  this  retreat  occasionally, 
and  it  was  here  I  saw  him  again.  He  looks  as  if  the  cares 
of  state  do  not  trouble  him  much.  His  domestic  relations 
are  extremely  felicitous.  He  is  rather  a  quiet  gentleman, 
being  studiously  inclined.  The  Queen  is  an  excellent  mother, 
and  is  devoted  to  domestic  duties.  She  superintends  her 
daughters'  education,  leaving  them  very  little  to  the  care  of 
ladies  of  honor  or  governesses,  and  is  devoted  to  her  husband 
and  family. 

Near  Lacken  is  the  burying-ground,  in  which  De  Bereit 
erected  the  magnificent  monument  over  the  remains  of  his 
wife,  the  famous  prima  donna,  Malibran;  and  here  also  is 
the  monument  to  some  of  the  heroes  of  Waterloo,  which  has 
been  raised  by  the  King  and  some  citizens  of  Brussels.  The 
King  occasionally  visits  this  beautiful  spot,  and  among  the 
quiet  dead  the  King  of  the  Belgians  may  often  be  seen 
whiling  away  an  hour,  free  from  the  trammels  of  ceremony 
and  the  cares  of  a  kingdom. 


LADY  DUFFUS  HARDY. 


AMONG  the  many  pleasant  acquaintances  made  through 
my  work  as  a  reporter,  was  Lady  Duffus  Hardy  and 
her  daughter  Iza  Hardy,  the  young  lady  who,  it  will  be  re- 
membered, was — so  report  said — at  one  time  engaged  to  Mr. 
Joaquin  Miller.  The  ladies  are  English,  and  both  writers, 
the  mother,  however,  having  achieved  more  note,  owing  no 
doubt  to  her  much  longer  experience. 

Lady  Hardy  is  the  widow  of  Sir  Thomas  Duftus  Hardy, 
who  died  about  ten  years  ago  in  London.  He  was 
"  Deputy  Keeper  of  Records  and  Rolls,"  and  was  knighted 
by  the  Queen  for  learned  historical  and  antiquarian  research. 
Sir  Thomas  had  been  in  the  government  service  in  his  de- 
partment for  upwards  of  fifty-five  years.  To  show  in  what 
esteem  he  was  held,  it  may  be  mentioned  that  the  depart- 
ment was  put  in  mourning  when  he  died,  and  it  was  the 
first  tims  the  honor  had  been  conferred  upon  anyone  in  the 
government  office,  from  the  time  of  the  death  of  the  Prince 
Consort. 

When  I  first  met  Lady  Hardy,  which  was  ab  mt  five  years 
ago,  she  was  perhaps  forty -five"  years  of  age,  of  portly 
physique,  easy  and  gentle  in  her  manners,  of  the  true  type 
of  the  English  lady.  Her  countenance  is  very  expressive, 


68  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

an  1  with  features  exceedingly  mobile.  Her  flow  of  language 
is  remarkably  free  and  much  to  the  purpose.  She  is  the 
author  of  quite  a  number  of  novels  which  are  as  yet  but 
little  known  in  America,  although  her  books  have  a  large 
circulation  in  England.  Among  them  may  be  mentioned, 
"Madge,"  "  Lizzie,"  "Woman's  Triumph,"  "  Paul  Wynter's 
Sacrifice,"  and  "  Daisy  Nichol."  This  last  was  the  only  one 
that  had  been  published  in  the  United  States  when  Lady 
Hardy  was  in  this  country  nine  years  ago.  Lady  HarJy 
has  always  been  a  great  admirer  of  the  Americans,  and  has 
been  noted  in  London  for  the  many  entertainments  given 
at  her  house,  an  elegant  residence  in  Northbank  street, 
Regent  square.  So  thoroughly  was  she  identified  with  the 
Americans  in  London  that  she  received  invitations  to  most 
of  the  receptions  tendered  to  General  Grant  in  that  city. 

Iza,  Lady  Hardy's  only  child,  is  a  young  lady  of  tall, 
willowy  and  very  erect  figure,  with  dark  bright  eyes  and 
soft  brown  hair.  Among  the  novels  she  has  written  may 
be  mentioned:  "Broken  Faith,"  "Only  a  Love  Story," 
"  Glencairn," — which  has  been  translated  into  the  German  — 
and  "  Not  Easily  Jealous,"  her  first  book,  written  before  she 
was  eighteen  years  old.  About  the  time  the  ladies  visited 
this  country,  Miss  Hardy  gave  into  the  hands  of  a  New 
York  publishing  house  a  book  she  had  just  finished,  entitled 
"  Friend  and  Lover."  She  is  a  constant  contributor  to  such 
magazines  as  Belgravia  and  Temple  Bar,  and  has  written 
several  poems  of  much  merit. 

A  short  time  after  the  arrival  of  Lady  Hardy  and  her 
daughter  in  San  Francisco,  cards  and  invitations  from  ladies 
of  position  began  pouring  in,  and  from  that  time  on  they 


LADY    DUFFUS    HARDY.  69 

were  kept  in  a  whirl  of  excitement  by  balls,  parties,  recep- 
tions, dinners,  teas,  kettle-drums  and  sight-seeing.  I  saw 
much  of  the  ladies  during  their  stay  in  San  Francisco,  and 
during  an  illness  of  three  weeks,  many  a  lonely  day  was 
made  cheerful  by  a  call,  or  a  note,  or  a  book  to  read,  from 
one  or  the  other.  One  day  Lady  Hardy  said  to  me :  "  Do 
you  know  what  I  think  of  San  Francisco  1  This:  I  think 
it  is  simply  the  most  beautiful  city  for  its  age  in  the  world; 
match' ess  in  its  situation,  marvelous  in  the  strength,  power 
and  enterprise  of  its  people,  a  puzzle  to  the  curious,  a  lesson 
to  the  wise.  It  is  a  city  of  magnificent  beginnings — a  thing 
of  promise  which  I  am  confident  will  have  a  glorious  fulfill- 
ment." 

"  I  should  imagine  you  liked  writing  \rery  much,  Lady 
Hardy,"  I  said  to  her  on  one  occasion.  "  Yes,"  she  replied, 
"it  is  a  comfort  to  the  heart  and  brain."  And  among  other 
questions,  I  asked  her — "  What  do  you  think  of  lady  re- 
porters ?"  "Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "you  are  the  first 
one  I  ever  met,  and  so  I  shall  say,  I  like  lady  reporters. 
There  is  only  one  thing  I  am  sorry  to  see  in  you."  "  Say 
what  it  is,  and  it  shall  no  longer  exist,"  I  cried. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  lady,  that  is  easier  said  than  done,  I  fear; 
but  it  is  that  horrid  society  work  you  do.  Telling  all  about 
where  people  go,  what  they  do,  what  they  eat,  what  they 
wear,  and  goodness  knows  what  all."  "  Yes,"  I  replied,  "I 
certainly  agree  with  you,  especially,  '  it  is  easier  said  than 
done;'  but  one  must  live,  and  it  is  good  pay." 

"  I  intend  to  commence  a  book  on  America,  as  soon  as  I 
return  home,"  she  said,  "  and  I  shall  make  some  very  strong 
references  to  this  sort  of  newspaper  work." 


70  PEOPLE    I    HAVE   MET. 

Although^very  desirous,  I  have  never  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  the  above-mentioned  book. 

o 

I  j  I  saw  Lady  Hardy  the  day  she  left  the  Occidental  Hotel, 
for  the  train,  to  go  East,  and  I  remember  her  saying  to  me, 
and  she  really  appeared  to  be  in  earnest: 

"  I  assure  you  it  is  with  much  regret  I  say  good -by  to  the 
Golden  City;  but  my  regret  would  be  tenfold  greater,  if  I 
did  not  hope  to  revisit  it  again  with  my  daughter,  some  day 
not  long  distant,  for  I  shall  never  forget  the  many  cordial 
kindnesses  I  have  received  in  '  This  land  of  the  sea  with  its 
fragrant  foam,  which  reached  to  the  stranger  the  welcome 
of  home.' " 


MONSIEUE    LOZE. 


MONSIEUR  LOZE. 


AMONG  the  various  objects  of  interest  in  Paris  is  the  police 
system,  and  the  many  prisons.  Still  few  tourists 
care  to  devote  much  time  in  this  direction.  I  was,  how- 
ever, determined  to  make  an  inspection  as  far  into  the 
system  as  possible,  the  results  of  which  appeared  subse- 
quently in  the  Morning  Call  while  corresponding  for  that 
journal. 

But  what  an  amount  of  red  tape  I  had  to  go  through  to 
obtain  the  desired  privilege !  And  what  an  amount  of 
influence  was  required  !  Armed  with  an  excellent  letter 
from  the  state,  embellished  with  the  great  seal  of  California 
and  the  governor's  signature,  together  with  letters  from 
Chief  of  Police  Crowley,  Captain  Laes  and  several  private 
latters,  I  sought  the  American  minister,  Mr.  McLane,  then 
in  Paris,  and  obtained  from  him  a  very  strong  letter  of 
introduction  to  Monsieur  Loze,  the  prefect  of  police,  whose 
position  makes  him  one  of  the  most  influential  'men  of  the 
French  capitol.  A  meeting  with  him  WMS  by  no  means  an 
easy  matter.  The  prefecture  was  reached  after  driving 
some  distance,  and  crossing  the  Seine  at  Point  Neuf.  The 
prefect  has  a  special  office  of  his  own.  Under  him  is  the 
department  of  the  secretariat-general,  one  section  of  which 
supe:  intends  the  members  of  the  force,  its  stores,  archives 


74  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

and  accounts,  while  the  two  others  control  the  police  of 
Paris  and  its  markets.  Upon  inquiring  for  the  prefect 
I  was  shown  toward  a  flight  of  stone  stairs,  and,  in  com- 
pany of  a  guide,  began  ascending,  passing  one  landing  after 
another,  until  reaching  the  very  topmost  one  of  the  grand 
structure.  There  we  were  received  by  a  very  powerful- 
looking  man  in  a  light-blue  coat,  red  vest,  black  trousers, 
and  a  gold  colored  sash.  He  took  my  letter,  and  soon  we 
were  shown  into  a  large,  comfortably  furnished  apartment 
to  await  M.  Loze's  answer.  The  answer  soon  came  that 
the  prefect  would  receive  me  the  following  day  between  11 
and  12  o'clock.  I  went  through  the  same  formality  the 
next  day,  when  on.  my  way  to  keep  the  appointment  again; 
there  was  clambering  up  the  long  stairway,  and  another 
meeting  with  the  man  in  the  gorgeous  colors.  A  messenger 
was  dispatched  to  the  prefect  to  inquire  if  he  was  at  liberty. 
I  was  next  passed  over  to  an  officer,  who  conducted  me 
through  long  halls,  turning  first  one  way,  then  another,  pass- 
ing dark  and  silent  places,  until,  arriving  at  a  certain  point 
where  I  was  left  in  charge  of  another  conductor,  who  carried 
a  large  sword  and  looked  very  dignified,  bowing  all  the  way, 
until  I  really  began  to  feel  of  very  much  importance  !  At 
last  he  stopped  at  a  door  heavily  draped  with  dark  rich 
portieres;  the  draperies  were  lifted  at  one  side,  and  I  was 
ushered  into  the  presence  of  M.  Loze!  He  came  forward 
with  a  look  of  welcome,  and  it  was  difficult  to  know  which 
would  claim  the  first  attention.  There  was  the  tall,  handsome 
French  gentleman,  with  his  full  side-whiskers  and  graceful 
manner.  There,  too,  were  the  rich  surroundings,  the  soft, 
velvety  carpet,  the  handsome  window  coverings,  the  great 


MONSIEUR    LOZE.  75 

book-cases  filled  with  well-bound  books,  the  massive  pieces 
of  furniture,  great  easy-chairs  and  a  table  of  noble  propor- 
tions, holding  books,  paper  and  writing  materials.  A  mellow, 
subsued  light  came  through  the  partly-closed  blinds,  while 
the  faint,  sweet  smell  from  a  bunch  of  violets  added  additional 
charm  to  the  scene. 

At  that  moment  I  thought  of  our  able  "  prefect  "  in  the 
miserable  quarters  where  I  had  last  seen  him  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  I  said,  mentally,  "  Surely  he  is  as  great  a  man 
with  us,  as  is  the  French  prefect  to  the  people  of  Paris." 
M.  Loze  read,  in  broken  English,  Captain  Lees'  flattering 
letter  of  recommendation. 

The  result  of  the  interview  was  a  letter,  or  rather  a  com- 
mand, to  each  director  of  the  seven  different  prisons  under 
his  control,  ordering  that  every  facility  and  attention  should 
be  extended  to  the  bearer  and  friend.  I  remember  during 
the  conversation,  M.  Loz6  said,  he  admired  the  American 
people  and  was  always  glad  to  be  of  service  to  them. 

When  taking  leave  of  the  prefect  he  turned  to  a  private 
draw  in  one  of  the  book-cases  and  took  therefrom  a  number 
of  tickets,  to  various  places  in  and  around  Paris,  the  doors 
of  which  will  not  be  opened  unless  the  printed  orders  are 
shown.  There  were  also  numerous  cards  to  places  of  beaux- 
arts.  These  he  presented,  and  then  gallantly  raised  the 
portiere  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  from  which  I  had 
entered,  and  bowed  me  out,  presenting  at  the  same  time  the 
secretariat-general.  And  so  ended  the  pleasant  visit  to  the 
prefect  of  police,  a  gentleman  exceedingly  moral  and  much 
respected;  a  fine-looking  man,  very  commanding  in  appear- 
ance, and  just  in  the  prime  of  life. 


MRS.    TINSDALE. 


"  Is  there  anyone  here  going  to  Charing  Cross  station, 
who  speaks  English  T 

What  a  sweet,  clear,  positive  voice!  On  the  instant  I 
turned  my  head  in  the  direction  from  whence  it  came,  and 
met  just  such  a  face  as  I  expected  to  see — a  round,  pleasant 
face,  with  full  speaking  brown  eyes,  an  earnest,  well-formed 
mouth,  and  a  mass  of  wavy  auburn  hair.  "  I  speak 
English,  and  I  am  going  to  Charing  Cross,"  I  answered; 
Then  the  stranger,  who  was  a  handsome  English  lady, 
picked  up  a  little  boy,  perhaps  six  years  of  age,  and  pushed 
him  toward  me  saying:  "  Then  will  you  take  my  child  in 
charge  and  give  him  over  to  a  gentleman  who  will  meet 
you  in  London?"  "  Yes,"  I  said,  and  handing  her  my  card, 
added,  "  There  is  my  name,  and  my  London  address,  and  my 
vocation."  "Ah!  I  see  you  are  a  newspaper  writer.  Do 
you  know  I  am  devoting  my  best  energies  to  the  cause  of 
women,  and  in  fact,  that  is  what  I  am  now  in  Paris  for.  I 
have  not  a  card  with  me.  My  son  has  one  around  his  neck. 
Show  it  to  the  lady,  Harry.  Oh,  how  slow  you  are!  You 
see  how  stupid  he  is!  I'll — "  but  I  didn't  catch  the  last 
sentence;  it  was  lost  in  a  jingling  of  bells,  steam-whistles, 
and  the  guards  rushing  past  waving  little  red  nags,  slam- 
ming and  fastening  the  coach  doors.  The  scene  occurred 


MRS.    TINSDALE.  77 

early  one  morning  at  the  Gard  du  Nord  in  Paris,  and  all  in 
about  five  minutes.  Then  we  were  rushing  out  of  the 
French  capital,  making  our  way  to  the  old  historic  town  of 
Boulogne,  intending  to  lake  the  steamer  there  for  Folke- 
stone, and  thence  to  London.  As  we  moved  out  of  the 
Gard,  the  little  fellow  seemed  to  realize  that  he  was  left  en- 
tirely alone  with  strangers,  and  only  a  slight  demand  on  my 
protection.  The  tears  would  well  up  to  his  pretty  brown 
eyes,  but  after  a  desperate  resisting  struggle,  he  threw  him- 
self into  my  arms  and  cried  himself  to  sleep.  I  then  had 
time  to  think  over  the  situation  What  in  my  impetuosity 
had  I  done]  Allowed  this  child  to  be  thrust  upon  me  by 
an  entire  stranger.  How  did  I  know  I  would  be  relieved  of 

o 

him  when  I  arrived  in  London  at  6:30  in  the  evening?  I 
had  only  this  stranger's  word.  The  boy  would  say  nothing, 
and  it  may  have  been  a  fancy,  but  I  thought  the  other  pas- 
sengers gave  knowing  yet  mysterious  glances  toward  me 
and  the  boy.  Surely  no  right-minded  or  right-hearted 
mother  would  send  her  child  "adrift.  Yet  perhaps  an  En- 
glish mother  was  not  so  tender-hearted  as  the  mothers  of 
America.  Could  it  be  she  was  an  adventuress,  who  had  thus 
cunningly  got  rid  of  somebody's  child?  Perhaps  she  read  in 
my  face  the  signs  of  a  simple-minded  woman  easily  duped, 
and  then  I  tried  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  my  face  in  the  little 
mirror  opposite.  "Yes,  surely  I  looked  like  one  easily 
fooled."  The  guardian  angel,  however  whispered  to  me, 
"  Perhaps  she  read  charity  and  good  feeling  to  all  mankind, 
and  knew  she  could  trust  her  darling  with  you,"  and  as  these 
thoughts  passed  through  my  poor  bewildered  brain  we  sped 
on,  passing  many  sunny  little  French  towns.  At  Amiens 


w.: 


t» 


7 8  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

we  stopped  an  hour,  and  my  charge  got  his  luncheon  basket 
down.  What  a  study  that  preparation  was]  How  it  spoke 
of  duty — cold,  proper,  very  proper  duty.  Yet  not  a  spark  of 
love's  tra  series  could  I  discover.  The  basket  was  large  and 
well  filled  with  enough  for  three  persons  at  least.  The  nap- 
kins were  snowy  white  and  smoothly  folded,  the  bread  cut 
as  by  a  square,  meat  ditto,  crackers  all  placed  with  precis- 
ion, and  a  stalk  of  celery  was  cut  very  evenly  and  nicely, 
rolled  in  a  napkin  butter  likewise;  pickles,  pepper,  salt,  etc., 
ditto.  No  sweets,  no  candies,  cakes  or  any  thing  appreciated 
by  the  liliputian  taste.  How  cold  it  all  looked.  I  noticed 
the  boy  frequently  drank  from  a  claret  bottle.  Good 
gracious!  could  it  ba  possible  that  bottle  was  full  of  wine  1 

I  hazarded  the  question,  "  You  are  drinking  milk,  T  sup- 
pose?" "  No,"  lie  answered,  in  his  cold,  unemotional  way, 
"  I  don't  like  milk."  Then  I  said  to  myself,  "  The  little  rebel 
must  be  a  wine  tippler."  At  last  in  utter  desperation  I 
asked,  "  What  is  it,  then  1 "  "  Water,  nothing  but  cold 
water." 

One  suspense  at  least  was  taken  from  my  mind.  During 
the  day  I  asked  him  to  show  me  the  card  which  his  mother 
had  in  the  morning  referred  to.  After  some  difficulty  he 
brought  it  forth.  It  was  attached  to  a  string,  and  bore  the 
following:  "  If  this  boy  is  lost,  take  him  to  Scotland  Yard 

and  send  this  card  to  Lord  L ,  Carlton  Club."  The 

plot  seemed  to  thicken,  and  it  looked  very  much  as  though 
I  were  to  be  arrested  for  carrying  off  some  one's  child.  At 
every  station  where  we  stopped  I  braced  myself  up  and 
almost  held  my  breath,  and  would  not  have  been  surprised 
to  have  been  ordered  out  of  my  carriage  by  a  sergeant  de 


MRS.    TINSDALE.  /9 

mile  at  any  moment.  As  the  train  drew  into  the  station  at 
Boulogne,  about  12  o'clock,  a  handsome  and  wonderfully 
striking  Frenchman,  with  a  fierce-looking  mustache,  came 
and  looked  in  at  us,  and  asked  in  good  English,  "Are  you 
Mme.  W.r  I  have  never  yet  found  out  what  reply  I  made. 
I  think  1  must  have  appeared  in  a  very  dazed  state,  for  I 
remember  hearing  him  say  to  the  boy,  "  Madame  is  faint; 
I  will  see  you  and  her  on  the  steamer."  A  few  moments 
later  the  vessel  was  steaming  towards  the  Channel,  and  we 
were  losing  sight  of  the  white  cliffs  of  France.  It  worried 
me  exceedingly  why  this  man  had  spoken  to  me.  Was  he 
following  us,  and  was  I  to  be  arrested  when  I  stepped  upon 
British  soil  ?  "  Oh,  poor  child,  what  trouble  have  you 
brought  on  me! "  I  said.  Had  the  handsome,  brown-eyed 
woman  set  a  spy  upon  me  ^  No.  I  soon  learned  he  was 
the  interpreter  who  goes  from  Paris  to  London  and  back 
daily  for  the  benefit  of  the  traveling  public,  and  madame  had 
asked  him  to  look  out  for  us. 

From  Folkestone  we  started  on  our  long  afternoon  ride, 
going  through  the  loveliest  portion  of  Kent;  passing  the 
quaint  old  town  of  Rochester,  where  Dickens  loved  to  think 
out  his  stories  and  to  write;  running  through  Chiselhurst, 
where  we  caught  a  bird's-eye  view  of  Eugenie's  home;  then 
out  among  the  green  fields,  and  again  under  great  branches 
of  trees.  At  last  the  lights  of  London  came  in  view,  and 
we  would  soon  be  at  Charing  Cross  station — a  moment 
wished  and  feared.  As  one  depot  and  another  was  passed, 
our  companions  of  the  day  left  us,  and  we  were  at  last  the 
sole  occupants  of  the  luxurious  coach.  The  train  was 
promptly  on  time,  and,  as  it  was  slowing  up,  a  face  appeared 


8O  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

at  the  window  which  almost  took  my  breath  away.  There 
were  the  brown  eyes,  the  wavy  hair,  and  the  full,  round 
face,  almost  a  facsimile  of  my  morning  acquaintance,  only 
more  rugged  and  more  manly.  But  the  sweetest  sounds — 
the  most  consoling  ones  to  my  ears — were  when  the  boy, 
fairly  jumping  with  glee,  shouted,  "  Oh,  there's  Uncle 
Percy!"  It  was  his  mother's  brother  who  had  been  tele- 
graphed to,  to  meet  us.  In  my  nervous  state  I  had  neg- 
lected to  look  on  the  other  side  of  the  card  which  the  boy 
had  tied  around  his  neck,  or  I  would  have  read  the  name 
of  Mrs.  Tinsdale,  Bloomsbury  Square,  London,  who  is  one 
of  the  leading  ladies  of  that  city,  and  who  is  deeply  inter- 
ested in  all  that  concerns  women  and  women's  work,  and 
who  spends  much  of  her  time  traveling  over  Europe,  look- 
ing into  the  great  question  that  is  now  coming  so  boldly  to 
the  front.  I  was  taught  a  lesson  that  day  which  will  serve 
me  the  rest  of  my  lifetime — not  to  be  too  quick  in  obliging 
strangers  if  I  value  my  peace  of  mind. 


ANTHONY    TROLLOPE. 


ANTHONY  TROLLOPE. 


IT  was  on  the  Tsland  of  Jamaica,  a  number  of  years  ago,  I 
first  met  Anthony  Trollope,  who  was  accompanied  by 
his  son.  The  occasion  was  a  dress  parade  of  her  Majesty's 
black  or  native  soldiers;  the  location,  the  plaza,  a  sort  of 
park  to  which  the  inhabitants  of  the  insular  capital  resort 
on  Thursday  afternoons,  to  witness  the  military  maneuvers, 
and  listen  to  the  music  of  the  band,  made  up  of  native 
musicians,  who  play  with  considerable  skill,  and  number  about 
fifty  performers.  The  Trollopes,  father  and  son,  were  in 
search  of  material  for  a  new  book,  and  an  opportunity  was 
tlms  afforded  for  observing  their  peculiar  manner  of  col- 
lecting facts  to  be  interwoven  with  fiction.  It  was  amus- 
ing, as  well  as  instructive,  to  observe  the  indefatigable 
way  in  which  they  used  their  note-books.  Like  all  earnest 
seekers  after  novelty,  and  with  a  true  desire  for  knowledge, 
they  allowed  nothing  to  escape  their  attention,  and  nothing 
was  too  trivial  for  record.  They  were  at  the  parade, 
comparing  the  picturesque  zouave  dresses  with  the  jetty 
faces  of  the  soldiers,  and  on  this  occasion  (as  on  every  other) 
the  note-books  were  before  them,  and  their  pencils  on  the 
page,  ready  to  write  down  anything  and  everything  that 
occurred  at  isolated  banana  groves,  viewing  the  tropical 


84  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

growth  of  the  cocoanut-tree,  the  domestic  productions,  the 
peculiarities  of  the  little  island  empire.  In  fa<  t,  the 
travelers  and  their  note-books  were  everywhere,  and  so 
ostentatiously  desirous  of  acquiring  knowledge,  that  it  was 
the  prevalent  belief  of  the  people  of  Kingston  that  not  a 
private  cock-fight  or  badger- run  could  be  indulged  in 
without  the  presence  of  the  Trollopes  and  their  extensive 
preparations  for  takin  >  notes,  sketches,  etc.  I  dare  say  one 
reason  why  Mr.  Trollope's  novels  are  not  so  popular  in  this 
country,  is  that  the  pains  taken  with  the  minor  matters 
become  tedious  and  tiresome  to  the  average  American 
reader.  Mr.  Trollope,  when  I  first  met  him  was  about 
sixty  years  of  age,  in  aspect  rugged  and  stern,  with  grizzly 
beard,  hair  somewhat  gray,  and  bald-headed,  with  gray 
eyes,  which  glance  at  you  through  the  medium  of  a  pair  of 
spectacles.  His  appearance  was  in  accord  with  his  habits, 
precise,  thorough  and  systematic.  The  negro  musicians 
amused  him  vastly. 

After  the  parade  he  spoke  to  me  of  their  performance, 
saying:  "  They  are  very  fair  for  this  country,"  and  not  a 
little  of  the  proverbial  contempt  of  the  Britons  for  everything 
foreign  was  expressed  in  the  tone  of  his  voice,  as  well  as 
in  the  words  themselves.  Jamaica,  especially,  is  not  a  place 
where  a  man  of  Mr.  Trollope's  temperament  and  education 
would  care  to  spend  a  life-time.  At  certain  seasons  the 
heat  is  so  intense  as  to  be  almost  unbearable  to  all  but 
natives,  and  at  times  the  floods  are  sudden  and  terrible. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that  a  dangerous  advent- 
ure happened  to  Mr.  Trollope  and  his  party,  among  whom 
I  was  numbered,  which  gave  me  an  insight  into  his 


ANTHONY    TROLLOPE.  85. 

character  that  I  could  not  well  otherwise  have  obtained.  A 
few  miles  from  Kingston  there  lived  a  gentleman  by  the 
name  of  Brown,  who  became  acquainted  with  us,  which 
resulted  in  our  visiting  him  on  his  plantation,  one  of  the 
largest  on  the  island.  Mr.  Trollope  remarked  that  this 
would  offer  him  an  excellent  opportunity  of  witnessing  the 
labor  of  the  native  negroes,  and  how  they  were  treated  by 
their  masters.  A  small  stream  passed  through  this  planta- 
tion, and  on  either  side  there  were  fields  of  coffee  and  sugar- 
cane. On  a  slightly  elevated  plateau,  about  two  hundred 
feet  from  the  stream,  and  in  the  center  of  the  plantation, 
stood  the  house,  built  in  the  usual  style  of  architecture 
peculiar  to  the  "West  Indies.  The  party  went  to  bed  that 
evening  tired  with  the  journey;  and,  on  the  following  morn- 
ing, at  about  five  o'clock,  were  awakened  by  the  sun,  which, 
at  that  early  hour  shone  brightly  through  the  windows 
with  so  much  warmth  that  a  bed  became  intolerable.  At 
six  o'clock  we  were  called  to  breakfast.  I  could  hear  my 
next-door  neighbor  growling  about  the  early  hour  at  which 
he  was  obliged  to  rise.  I  think  I  can  hear  him  now, 
s  tying,  in  that  subdued,  gruff  voice  of  his,  "  What  a  beastly 
country,  fit  for  negroes,  to  be  sure!"  I  met  him  at  break- 
fast, and  I  said  to  him,  in  a  quiet,  confidential  tone,  "  Mr. 
Trollope,  have  you  made  a  note  of  our  rooms  T  The  look 
he  gave  me  did  not  betray  that  he  had  discovered  any 
sarcasm  in  my  question.  He  merely  returned,  "  Yes,  I 
have  had  plenty  of  time  and  light  to  make  a  note  of  all,  for 
it  seems  it  is  hardly  dark  before  it  is  daylight  again."  We 
finished  our  breakfast,  which  consisted  of  fried  plantain, 
yams,  eggs,  and  small  fish  called  Jamaica  mullet,  resembling 


86  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

our  mountain  trout,  but  even  more  delicious  in  flavor; 
coffee,  with  a  most  fascinating:  aroma,  owing  to  the  few 
grains  of  pimento,  which  is  added  while  boiling,  and  sweet- 
ened with  sugar  as  black  almost  as  Phillipo  the  negro 
steward,  who  waited  on  the  table  and  fanned  away  the  flies 
while  we  were  eating.  This  served  for  another  item  to  be 
entered  in  Mr.  Trollope's  note-book.  The  morning  was 
pleasant  enough,  but  in  the  afternoon  clouds  became 
visible,  and  we  were  told  to  expect  a  storm,  and  soon  we 
had  a  scene  that  defies  description.  The  rain  came  pouring 
down  so  fiercely,  and  in  such  torrents,  that  it  seemed  as  if  it 
were  one  continuous  stream  of  water.  But  it  was  grand  to 
look  at!  The  landscape,  not  twenty  yards  from  us,  was 
totally  obscured,  so  thick  and  fast  did  the  rain-drops  come 
down.  The  negroes  were  called  to  their  quarters  to  make 
ready  for  any  emergency  which  might  occur.  The 
wind  did  not  cease  to  blow,  and  we  were  compelled  to 
remain  that  night,  and  were  told  that  probably  we  would 
have  to  stay  for  a  longer  time.  The  face  of  our  fellow- 
guest  expressed  nothing;  but  what  he  inwardly  uttered  and 
put  in  his  note-book,  I  will  not  try  to  guess. 

Another  night  passed;  the  rain  continued  in  its  fierceness, 
and  what  a  sight  met  our  eyes !  The  small  stream, 
meandering  so  calmly  along  a  few  hours  previously,  was 
now  swollen  to  a  raging  torrent,  carrying  with  it  everything 
that  came  in  its  way.  Mr.  Brown  was  greatly  alarmed, 
saying  that  the  stream  had  risen  four  feet  within  an  hour. 
I  inquired  what  he  feared.  He  said  we  must  get  ready  to 
leave  the  house;  the  negroes  were  instructed  to  carry  as 
much  provision  as  possible  to  a  mountain  station,  a  short 


ANTHONY    TROLLOPE.  87 

distance  from  the  house.  It  very  frequently  happens  that 
these  floods  do  all  the  damage  possible,  then  subside  as  fast 
as  they  arose,  leaving  everything  that  stood  in  the  way  a 
total  wreck;  and  so  it  nearly  proved  in  this  instance.  In  a 
few  hours  from  the  time  the  river  began  to  rise,  the  water 
had  nearly  reached  the  house.  The  storm  abating  some- 
what, we  ferried,  on  a  raft  made  of  old  boards  and  tied 
together,  to  the  place  where  the  blacks  had  gathered.  It 
was  a  sort  of  rudely-built  house  in  the  mountains,  from  which 
we  could  see  the  valley  nearly  covered  with  water.  The 
negroes  were  terribly  freightened,  and  it  was  all  we  could 
do  to  pacify  them.  Sitting  on  a  rock  as  near  the  entrance 
as  he  could  get  was  Mr.  Trollope,  with  the  tiresome  pencil 
in  his  hand,  still  persisting  in  taking  notes.  Fortunately 
no  lives  were  lost.  The  water  subsided  as  suddenly  as  it 
came  upon  us;  the  plantation  was  almost  ruined,  and  the 
furniture  quite  so,  though  the  building  remained. 

As  we  were  coming  down  the  mountain,  I  looked  at  Mr. 
Brown  with  real  pity,  and  would  have  condoled  with  him, 
but  he  interpreted  my  look,  and  said  in  as  light  a  tone  as 
he  could  command,  "  Never  mind,  my  plantation  will  look 
just  as  well  as  it  ever  did  in  six  months  from  now.  You 
see,  this  is  one  of  the  accidents  we  planters  may  expect  at 
any  time,  and  it  can't  be  helped." 

I  could  not  refrain  from  saying,  "Sir,  you  are  a  brave  man," 
and  I  looked  toward  Mr.  Trollope  expecting  him  to  say  some 
thing  in  approval  of  that  sentiment.  He  was  busy  with  his 
note-book.  I  do  not  think  it  was  real  selfishness  of  the  man, 
but  an  earnest  absorption  of  the  author  in  his  self-imposed 
task  of  describing  Jamaica.  I  learned  a  month  later  that 


88  PEOPLE    I    HAVE    MET. 

Mr.  Trollope  had  used  every  effort  with  the  government  to 
render  assistance  to  Mr.  Brown,  and  by  his  individual  ex- 
ertions had  a  number  of  concessions  made  to  the  planter 
which  were  of  value  to  him. 

Shortly  after  we  parted  from  Mr.  Brown,  and  soon  arrived 
at  our  comfortable  hotel  quarters.  That  evening  we  related 
our  adventure  to  others,  and  I  found  that  Mr.  Trollope's 
note-book  kept  me  in  order  and  in  exact  time  regarding  our 
experiences.  He  was  in  a  more  talkative  mood  than  usual 
that  evening,  and  I  ventured  to  ask  him  about  his 'books — 
discussed  them  with  him.  But  he  would  not  enter  very 
heartily  into  the  subject;  so  among  other  things,  I  spoke  of 
Mrs.  Ann  Trollope  and  mentioned  that  she  had  written  a 
book  about  America,  but  it  was  not  very  complimentary. 

"  It  was,  no  doubt,  the  truth,"  said  he,  "  and  if  it  wa.s, 
Americans  have  no  right  to  feel  hurt  about  it." 

I  replied,  "  But  I  am  an  American,  I  spent  some  of  the 
best  years  of  my  life  in  New  York  city,  and  have  also,  lived 
in  many  other  places,  and  I  ask  you  honestly,  was  it  not 
exaggeration — Mrs.  Trollope's  description  of  an  American 
first-class  hotel  1 "  "  What  do  you  mean  1 "  he  inquired.  I 
replied:  "Mrs.  Trollope  described  her  first  dinner  in  America, 
as  nearly  as  I  can  recollect,  thus — '  She  was  sitting  at  a 
table,  a  soiled  napkin  was  handed  to  her,  which  no  doubt 
had  been  used  before.  The  waiter  mocked  her  when  she 
ordered  from  the  bill  of  fare,  and  a  gentleman  sitting  opposite 
to  her  picked  his  teeth  with  a  fork  after  having  finished  his 
dinner/  "  "  This  was  many  years  ago,"  he  said,  "  and  I  do 
not  remember  anything  about  it.  I  only  know  Mrs.  Trollope 
described  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  country  exactly 


ANTHONY    TROLLOPE.  89 

as  she  found  them."  I  did  not  reply,  feeling  that  an  in. 
justice  had  been  done  to  my  countrymen. 

Since  I  met  Mr.  Trollope,  he  has  issued  his  book,  and  I 
would  not  advise  him  to  visit  Jamaica  again,  for  he  has 
offended  a  great  many  of  his  own  countrymen,  by  exaggerat- 
ing the  faults  of  the  place  and  the  people.  The  inhabitants 
of  Jamaica  do  not  feel  as  if  they  had  been  very  gratef  Lilly 
dealt  with  by  Mr.  Trollope  for  all  the  hospitality  that  was 
shown  him,  and  I  must  say  I  have  never  been  anywhere 
else  during  my  travels  where  so  much  kindness  is  shown  to 
strangers.  All  seem  to  think  it  their  duty  to  display  hearty 
hospitality.  It  is  true,  there  are  some  objections  to  a  life 
on  the  island,  as  I  have  already  shown;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  there  are  many  things  very  pleasant. 

I  met  Mr.  Trollope  again  at  Newcastle,  about  three  miles 
from  Kingston,  in  the  camp  of  Her  Majesty's  white  soldiers. 
A  stranger  is  welcomed  there  as  a  godsend,  for  a  duller  life 
than  army  existence  there  can  hardly  be  imagined.  Private 
theatricals,  balls,  etc.,  are  the  only  pleasures  which  relieve 
the  monotony  of  th°ir  existence.  Of  course  Mr.  Trollope 
was  welcomed  most  cordially  by  his  countrymen,  and  I  must 
add  that  the  welcome  extended  to  the  rest  of  us  was  not  one 
whit  cooler.  The  next  day  I  left  Jamaica  on  the  old  English 
steamer  Crusader,  and  so  ended  my  experience  in  the 
"  Island  of  Springs,"  and  my  adventures  with  the  great 
novelist,  Anthony  Trollope. 


YOU    KISSED    ME. 


You  kissed  me  !     My  head 

Dropped  low  on  your  breagt 
With  a  feeling  of  shelter 

And  infinite  rest. 
While  the  holy  emotions 

My  tongue  dared  not  speak 
Flashed  up  in  a  flame 

From  my  heart  to  my  cheek. 
Yours  arms  held  me  fast; 

Oh  !  your  arms  were  so  bold; 
Heart  beat  against  heart 

In  their  passionate  fold, 
Your  glances  seemed  drawing 

My  soul  through  my  eyes 
As  the  sun  draws  the  mist 

From  the  seas  to  the  skies 
Your  lips  clung  to  mine 

Till  I  prayed  in  my  bliss 
They  might  never  unclasp 

From  the  rapturous  kiss. 

You  kissed  me  !     My  heart, 

And  my  breath,  and  my  will 
In  delirious  joy 

For  a  moment  stood  still. 
Life  had  for  me  then 

No  temptations,  no  charms, 
No  visions  of  happiness 

Outside  of  your  arms, 


YOU    KISSED    ME.  9 1 

And  were  I  this  instant 

An  angel  possessed 
Of  the  peace  and  the  joy 

That  are  given  the  blest, 
I  would  fling  my  white  robes 

Unrepiningly  down, 
I  would  tear  from  my  forehead 

Its  beautiful  crown 
To  nestle  once  more 

In  that  haven  of  rest — 
Your  lips  upon  mine. 

My  head  on  your  breast. 

You  kissed  me  !    My  soul 

In  a  bliss  so  divine 
Reeled  like  a  drunken  man 

Foolish  with  wine; 
And  I  thought  'twere  delicious 

To  die  there,  if  death 
Would  but  come  while  my  lips 

Were  yet  moist  with  your  breath; 
If  I  might  grow  cold 

While  your  arms  clasped  me  round 
In  their  passionate  fold. 

And  these  are  the  questions 
I  ask  day  and  night: 

Must  lips  taste  no  more 
Such  exquisite  delight ! 

Would  you  care  if  your  breast 
Were  my  shelter  as  then, 

And  if  you  were  here 
Would  you  kiss  me  again  ? 

SELECTED. 


TZHZE 


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